


Feel the City Breaking

by LucyBrown45



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Job, Drug Use, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mutism as a Symptom of PTSD (non-descriptive), Original Character(s), Rimming, Switching, True Detective Crossover (sort of), Very Brief Use of Homophobic Slur, brief allusions to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-05-13
Packaged: 2018-09-23 22:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9683831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyBrown45/pseuds/LucyBrown45
Summary: New York, 1977 is a troubled city. In this damaged and dangerous place, Percival Graves is a weary cop dealing with a lot of demons: an estranged wife, difficult friendships and most recently the arrival of Credence Barebone in his life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A month ago, I called this ‘the 1970s, No-Magic AU/Part-True Detective Crossover that nobody wanted’. Recently, I spotted this [moodboard](http://sozdanie-gryazi-eternal.tumblr.com/post/157030364835/the-true-detective), so maybe some people will like bits of this. I hope it’s fun.

**April 1977**

“Gena, please. Don’t put him- I don’t want to-Hi!” Percival coughs. 

Pushes his elbows on the top of the phone box, bends his right knee forward, feeling the stretch in the back of his left leg. “Hi.” Rushes his hand through his hair, slicking it back. 

A small voice on the other end of the phone whispers, “Mommy.”

Percival looks down at the toe of his rough brown leather of his boots. It’s just getting dark. The purpling sky makes him feel like he can’t hear properly. One sense dulled, all of them dulled. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Hey, hi. It’s daddy.”

The small voice says, “Hello.” 

He doesn’t know what to say. “Does mommy want to talk to me?” 

There’s a sound dip and Percival doesn’t know if it’s the fading light interfering or if the phone is being held out to an empty void. Dangled over the hard wood floor of the kitchen, an unsure hand close to dropping it. He bets there’s something obnoxious on the television. 

_Now, we conducted a survey with one hundred people, and we got their answers to a question. Your job is to guess the most popular answer. Okay, here’s the question. Name something a deadbeat dad might talk to his child about_. 

He tries to fissure connective tissue between now and six months ago. “There’s. There’s a book-“ He coughs again, stands up and rubs the palm of left hand against his thigh. “A book I want to show you-“ The small voice hangs up the phone. 

_Oh, that’s not on the board. Not a top answer. Outta luck. You’re outta here_.

“Christ” He wants to put his head between his knees. He hangs the phone up. Puts his hands on hips, turns. Kicks at the pavement. Finally looks up. Iris is waiting for him.

Iris works a produce stall at the _Essex Street Market_ and should have bought Percival asparagus and spinach and blueberries. As he reaches her in the doorway of a closed Turkish bakery, he hands her a collection of folded bills. The lights of the floor above are on and there’s music playing. Somebody has draped an orange scarf over the window, but it doesn’t quite reach across. 

“Thanks. No blueberries, though.” She hands him back most of what he gave her. 

“Fine.” He leans into her, kisses her cheek, puts his hand into his back pockets. “Listen. Is this going to go on for long?”

“Why? Somewhere else to be?”

“It’s Tuesday.”

“Hmm.” She’s probably not his friend, he thinks as he follows her up a flight of bare stairs into the noise of the party. He arrested her once. It was an accident. He thought she was trying to break into a basement apartment. She was. She had locked herself out. In the heat of New York, he didn’t care what the law had to say about such a situation. He’d handcuffed her and pushed her into the back of his car. 

Later. When he was trying harder to be sober and she had spitefully called the police on him under suspicion of thieving tomatoes, they had swapped cigarettes, hand slaps. Sat on the curb before snow came. 

Iris is wearing a floral blouse that Percival feels confident he would be able to pinpoint if she wanders too far out of sight. He feels nervous. He’s the oldest person in the room. It makes him obvious. “He’s a cop!” his denim jacket and jeans announce to everybody. Nobody else has a moustache. 

Gena thinks he can be a good dad. Percival supposes this is nice if misguided of her. He comes from a long line of not-good dads. Dads who tried hard, dads who didn’t try at all. It doesn’t matter. Gena is a Good Mom. Their baby bought her a “Best Mom in the World” mug for Mothers’ Day last year. 

He helps himself to a beer. Reaching behind some kid who’s shouting about the president. Gena voted for Carter. She protested the war. She’s a good person. A good mom and a good person. And Percival screwed it up. 

He takes a long gulp of his drink, wipes his mouth on the back of his wrist and picks Iris out of the crowd. She’s dancing with a boy in high-waist pants. He’s tiny, but his smile is wide. He’s got solid looking teeth. Percival wonders if his life could have turned out better if he teeth that pure looking. The boy leans in to kiss Iris, but she teases. She leans sideways without leaning away from him. Percival has beaten boys up for her before. Boys who thought they knew everything, boys who had tugged at her headscarf, boys who were just plain asking for it. This one seems nice though. Good teeth, good dancing, a good boy. 

Percival doesn’t know if his baby at home is a good boy. He could be terrible. Crying all hours of the night. Not eating what Gena cooked for him. Refusing to do his shoelaces up. Percival doesn’t know. 

“He doesn’t care about redlining. The Act is about gentrification. He doesn’t care ‘bout us.” Percival reckons the kid voted for Carter and is just missing something to rage against, he moves away from him and pushes his way through a throng of people to the living room. With the orange scarf window, the room glows softly in comparison to the harsh light of the Formica kitchen. 

He sits next to a girl, stoned out of her mind. He’s hoping she’ll stay quiet. She slumps onto his shoulder and he rolls his eyes. He looks back at the kid and his political agenda. He’s got the tip of his index finger on the waistband of a blonde boy taller than him. He taps it and the James Hunt wannabe steps forward. Percival wonders what he thinks about gentrification. 

He’s lost track of time, the weight of the girl and the beer made him feel sleepy, eyes half closed and half watching Iris dance. Now though, she’s leaning over him. “Hey. Time to go.”

He stands up, nudging the girl to the other side of the couch. He tugs her dress to cover the backs of her legs. He feels tired. Bone tired. He has to walk with Iris, back to her apartment where his car is parked. It’s not that late, it’s still dark. It’s breezy out and he folds his arms. 

“Why did you call Gena?”

Percival looks at Iris, his mouth slightly open, surprised at her question, the night air hasn’t properly woken him up yet. Not sure what the answer is. 

“She called me.”

Iris punches him on his bicep, turns swiftly to walk backwards. She is laughing at him. “You were at a payphone.” She points her chin down and quirks an eyebrow. He huffs, looking away from her. She’s smart. Gena is good and Iris is smart. He can’t get away from it. 

“She coulda called me.” 

Iris raises her chin. 

“She could have. Maybe earlier today. Or yesterday.”

“She didn’t though.”

He stands still. “No. She did not.” He pulls a cigarette from the front pocket of his jacket. Leans forward to snag at Iris’s handbag strap. She sighs and pulls a lighter out for him. “Thank you”. She says pointedly. 

“I’m a cop, Iris. Do I really need a reason to check in on my-my,” he stutters, but goes for it, “my wife and child?”

She shrugs. “I guess not.” She turns and starts walking again. “But you’re not a cop at the moment.”

Hands hanging loose at his sides, cigarette in mouth he puffs out several quick breaths. He glares at the space between her shoulder blades. He wants to take her by the neck and rattle that smart head of hers. Instead, he yanks the cigarette from his mouth and strides to catch up with her. “Stop it. That’s not fair.”

She doesn’t answer for a long time. They’re nearly at her block when she speaks again. “Do you think it was fair what you did to that boy?”

He looks up. Somebody’s watering plants on their fire escape. “I didn’t-“

“No you didn’t. You didn’t do what they think you did. But you did enough.”

Opening her front door, turning the bedroom light on, going to brush her teeth, wash her make-up off, she hands him the spare toothbrush she keeps for him. He says, “It’s the opposite. I didn’t do nearly enough.” 

She changes into her pyjamas behind the green curtain room divider and lays down under the covers. He spits into the sink and catches her eyes watching him in the bathroom mirror. He takes off his jacket, lies down next to her and pulls it over his shoulders. He knows there’s a blanket in her wardrobe for him, but he doesn’t want to get it. He doesn’t deserve it tonight.

-

The next morning, Iris’s roommate hands him a mug of coffee. He grunts his thanks and she lets him leave with it still in his hand. It’s drizzling out and he feels jagged for not having showered at Iris’s, but she was asleep and he didn’t want to wake her up just so that they could break fight long enough for him to use her bathroom. Sitting in his car he brushes at the forearms of his jacket, lights a cigarette and drives over to _Tom’s_ where he knows Tina will be. 

“I’m not buying you breakfast.”

“Fine, don’t.” He steals her hash brown and swigs out of her coffee mug before she can swipe at him. 

“You look like hell.”

“Yeah. Well. I feel it.”

“Don’t we all." A waitress drops a handful of forks. “Iris called me.”

Percival folds his arms. Unfolds them and tugs more napkins than he needs out of the dispenser. 

“She said you drank last night.”

He doesn’t feel he has to justify himself to Tina and he’s cross that Iris was obviously already awake and just refused to make up with him so that she could call Tina without feeling guilty. 

“She said-“

“It was one beer. We were at a party. I had one beer and a watched her dance and made sure nobody took advantage of some passed out chick. It was fine.”

“You-“

“I’m old, Tina. And my life is a mess. So,” He sniffs. “Sorry I stayed up past my bedtime.”

“Don’t be like that” She’s clearly not worried anymore as she’s busy syphoning syrup onto her plate. “They’re looking for any excuse. One less unionist on their books. I want you to be careful.”

“More careful than last time.”

She looks up from her plate and past his shoulder to the street outside. There’s a kid leaning on her car. He’s drinking milk from a carton. 

“You were careful. Just not smart.”

“Or good.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” 

She sighs. “Look. Let me finish my breakfast. Go get that kid off my car.”

He leans an elbow over the back of the booth they’re sat in. He cranes his neck back to her, incredulous, but can’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t. 

Outside, the rain’s cleared somewhat and it’s starting to warm up. He stands in front of the kid who holds out his carton of milk to him. He takes it from him and drinks. He knows Tina’s watching. Thinking he’s lost his mind. “Thanks, kid.” He gives the carton back and pats him on the shoulder. The kid says nothing, but steps aside and goes to lean on the handlebars of his friend’s bike like his centre of gravity would fail without vehicular support. His friend pushes a harsh hand at his head, but lets him stay. Percival takes the kid’s place against the car and waits for Tina to come out. 

The kid on the bike watches him with careful eyes, like she’s seen him before. Percival watches her back and hopes that she hasn’t. Tina emerges from the diner, cop badge swaying heavily on the breast pocket of her draped blazer and the kids laugh as she unlocks the car. They’re scared, but they know to laugh. 

Tina fumbles with her keys turning the ignition on. She’s nervous now that she has to fulfil her promise. “I still don’t think this is sensible.” She pulls out into the road and flips the visor down. 

“It doesn’t have to be sensible. It’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re a suspended cop and I’m bringing you to a crime scene.”

“Not a crime scene. We’re just going to ask a lady about her current housing situation.”

“Sure.” Tina holds her palm out in sarcastic agreement before putting back on the wheel. 

He blows smoke out the window and flicks his cigarette after it. He rolls the window up and taps the signet ring on his little finger against the glass. Tina is wearing a beige pantsuit. It’s loose fitting and the sleeves fall to her elbows with her hands at ten and two. She’s got stocky wrists interrupted by a prominent bone. She’s uncomfortable because she doesn’t say anything for the rest of the ride, but Percival notices her thumbing her badge.

His badge is currently in his bedside cabinet. With his dog tags. He could have deferred, but he wanted to go. He wanted to serve his country. Wanted the set. Show how easy war is. He fought war on the streets on New York every day; no war abroad would be any different.

They pull up to a crumbling tenement block in East Harlem. The far gable has fallen into a blackened heap a sign of the increasing arson attacks in the city. Percival groans. 

“What?” Tina snipes.

He doesn’t want to answer her, but she won’t let him get away with that. He waves his hand at an elderly man picking clumps of brick and throwing them over his shoulder. There’s nothing that can be done, but he’s making a good pretence. “We’re going to talk to this woman about her emergency eviction and this is where she’s ended up.”

Tina ignores him, but slams the car door. He knows he’s stating the obvious, but since everything he’s felt these little knife prods of the world more closely. A permanent stomachache, a shadowy headache. Scrubby skin around the edge of his fingernails.

A woman has opened to door to Tina by the time he catches up. “It was a gas pipe that broke.”

“Who told you that?”

The woman looks at Tina’s badge and then does a quick assessment of Tina’s hair. “The police.”

Tina pauses and Percival thinks she might try to dispute this, but the woman cuts in. “The police told us that a gas pipe had exploded and that we would have to find alternative accommodation for the foreseeable future.” She looks behind her. 

Percival puts his hands in his back pockets and rocks on his heels to try and see into her doorway. A younger woman has the television on and is tapping the remote and signing the _Alka-Seltzer_ jingle.

“Was your landlord there?”

“No.”

Percival suspects she doesn’t know who the landlord is. She probably pays money to a friend who pays to a cousin and somehow everybody’s happy. Except for when a worn out gas pipe causes everybody to relocate. 

Tina folds her blazer closely around her and looks up the front of the building. There’s an ugly black smear, staining from the smoke. 

“If you don’t have any more questions…”

The old man has relocated to picking through the engine of a burnt out blue _Ford Granada_.

Tina puts her hand on the doorframe, but Percival can tell she’s run out of steam. He’s been told to stay silent, but asks, “Is that your daughter?’ He nods to the young woman inside.

The woman turns around like she’s not sure who he could be talking about before turning back. Her cheeks have gone ruddy and her nose pinched. She slams the door on them. Tina reacts immediately, banging on the door with her fist. “Miss, you have to open the door, we’re police.”

Percival scoffs at her and goes back to the car.

“I told you not to say anything.”

“You weren’t saying anything.”

She slams her hands down on the wheel of the car. “You’re not a detective anymore.” Her shouting makes him flinch, he covers it by taking out a cigarette and making a show of tapping it on his thigh, before putting it into his mouth and forcefully rolling down the window. He’s not going to fight her. 

She breathes in raggedly through her nose before letting it out in a low huff. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

“No you’re not.”

She turns the ignition on and starts to drive. 

“It’s okay you’re not sorry because you’re just telling the truth.”

She ignores him for a bit and then says, “I’m gonna drive you to Iris’s.”

She doesn’t mean Iris’s apartment. Percival wants to point out that his car is parked on a side street near _Tom’s_ just a block away from his own apartment. And that Iris still has his groceries. 

In midday traffic, Percival says, “Who were the cops who told her she had to leave the building?”

Tina’s elbow is on the windowsill and leans her hand into her hand. “I don’t know. I don’t think it was police, it would have been the fire crew if something had gone wrong with the gas pipe.”

“You don’t think it was?”

“There’s no reason not to believe them.” She puts her hand on the wheel to drive seven feet forward. “But what with the arson attacks and the layoffs, somebody might be trying to do a quick job of something.”

Percival grunts. He wants to ask her if she’s spoken to the other tenants and whether she’d let him look at the scene, but he knows the answer is no. She’s already done him a too big of a kindness by letting him pretend he was reinstated for a morning. “You reckon that was her daughter?”

Tina brushes invisible lint forcefully from her knee, brings her hand up to hang on the lapel of her blazer and swiftly parks the car. “No.”

-

Iris is telling a customer how much the tomatoes are in Spanish. Percival watches her honestly count out the cents on the customer’s palm. She hands him the paper bag and smiles at him. He puts his hand on his chest. “Chao,” he says. “Hasta mañana.”

He glares at Percival as he walks by. Percival ignores him and walks behind Iris’s stall to sit on an upturned milk crate. The market is quiet. Iris struggles to compete with the supermarkets these days. Iris looks down at him. “Don’t you dare light a cigarette here.”

“Fine. Fine.” He puts his elbows on his knees. “So. Got an apple?”

She grins at him and passes him one. All is forgiven. 

At five, Iris’s roommate Dalia arrives to help her pack up. She’s got sharp looking knee-high boots on. Percival is jealous. She hugs him hello and then when he fails to move the crates quick enough she shoves him the stomach with her forearm and hisses, “Just sit in the van.”

He does as he’s told, but can hear her say to Iris, “Is he spending the night again?”

“Yes. I suppose.”

“He has his own apartment. He might be suspended, but he’s still being paid and yet he’s bumming around us.”

“He’s not bumming. Anyway, he’ll go some place because we’re going to put that _Stay in Love_ record on and he’ll hate it.”

Percival does hate it and leaves muttering under his breath shortly after they put it on the turntable. 

“You don’t think he’s gone to a bar do you?”

“No. Maybe. It’s up to him I guess.” Iris sits ups from the couch; smoothes a hand over the back of her head and leans forward to lower the volume on the record player.

Dalia hands her a glass of lemonade. “You like this or her last record better?”

Iris takes a sip before putting back on the low coffee table “’M gonna have to listen again. Dance with me, hey?”

“Well, alright. But you’ve got silly feet.”

Iris is all wrists and hip twists when she dances. Dalia swings her arms and bops her head. Minnie Riperton sings, “But life goes on and I’ll get along” and Iris and Dalia sync up palms a hair apart and following an elaborate map. They dance soul to disco. 

“No one would set our place on fire would they?”

Iris hooks a hand over Dalia shoulder and hugs her close. 

He stands outside smoking. After one cigarette he can see Iris, through the window, turn the volume down and he enjoys his second in relative peace. There’s no escaping the noise of fire engines and hollering kids. 

He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He’s walking along the street and would rather go to _The Apollo_ , but since that baby got murdered there and it shut down indefinitely he turns to go to _The Victoria_. They’re playing the re-issue of _Fantasia_ and Percival figures it’s a good a place as any to carry on smoking and eat _Mars Men_. 

He’s close to saying he’s enjoying himself. During the intermission, he goes to buy a _Hershey_ bar and the girl at the counter charges him double for it. He lets her. He feels ripped off afterwards when he goes back in and finds out that they’ve inexplicitly paired up the _Disney_ movie with some shit called _Demon Seed_. He can’t believe the _Walt Disney Company_ would endorse this, even for a re-issue. He can’t watch anything where some poor woman gets tortured for the sick kicks of the audience. 

He goes back into the lobby. It’s eerie quiet like cinema lobbies always are when everyone else is sat watching the movie, doing what they're supposed to. He sits at a chair close to the concession stand and finishes his candy. He knows he must look like a fool. In his double denim, getting chocolate on his moustache and rooting around the _Mars Men_ box like a hungry cat. 

The girl is watching him with severe distaste. He’s not watching her though, he’s eyeing up her display. He kinda fancies a _Munch_ bar. He can feel his teeth rotting, but he’s nowhere else to go and he doesn’t care. He shoves the last _Mars Man_ in his mouth and wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist before going over to her. She’s turning over the popcorn. He can’t imagine what use that is, but he supposes he’d do the same if he were waiting for something to happen at a cinema concession stand.

“Hey.” He searches his back pockets for change. He points at the candy display behind her asks if he can have a _Munch_. She pauses ruffling the popcorn and looks him. She sighs and hands him one. He’s counting out pennies and she says, “Don’t worry about it.” He looks up her, lips parted in question. 

She shrugs, “Sorry.”

He puts them on the counter anyway and opens the bar. He takes a bite. With his mouth full he asks her, “What do you think of _Demon Seed_?”

She looks like she regrets feeling bad for him, then realisation crosses her face. “Oh. I dunno. Just another stupid horror picture.”

“Hmm.” He swallows. “ _Young Frankenstein_ was good.”

She laughs through her nose and tilts her head to the side. Squinting at him like she’s not sure where he’s going she says, “That’s not a horror film.”

“Sure it is. It’s got Frankenstein.”

She swipes his coins towards her and uses her pointer finger to arrange them in a pyramid. “Dracula’s better.”

He opens the wrapper until the remaining peanut crumbs and sugar crystals collect in a corner pocket and licks them up. His nose gets sticky and he brushes it with his knuckles. “Yeah. Dracula’s pretty good.”

He puts the wrapper on the counter and then his hand on his hips. He looks at the elaborate carpet and then at the girl through the strands of hair that have come loose and fallen over his face. “You gonna let me into the Bruce Lee film?”

She picks up her popcorn scoop. “No.”

He buys and shares a bucket of popcorn with the girl and asks her if she knows what the weather was going to be like for the week. He watches the lucky bastards leave the Bruce Lee picture and the loners and desperate couples whose faces match his too close for comfort escape the Demon trash. Then he sneaks back to Iris and Dalia’s place. Dalia’s in his spot, so he takes the blanket from the wardrobe and sleeps on the couch. 

-

He is woken by somebody saying his name. He keeps his eyes closed, but cracks his neck and rolls onto his stomach. 

“ _The Victoria_ probably won’t be there much longer. It’s gone bankrupt, apparently.” Tina’s voice is a lot higher than either Iris’s or Dalia’s and it would be her talking about neighbourhood policy failings like an old gossip instead of keeping it shut like the detective she is. 

“Well, nobody would be surprised.” Dalia slurps her coffee loudly. She’s explained to Percival often that it tastes best that way.

Iris sounds like she’s stirring oatmeal with a wooden spoon. “ _The Apollo_ 's the real loss.” 

Percival can envisage them nodding sagely like the Macbeth witches. Maybe if they joined hands, prayed over Iranian coffee grinds, whistled Donna Summer, restoration not gentrification would allow their community to ascend above the burning bricks, the inked out trains to templar status. Bring back the life of that child shot in the darkened stalls of _The Apollo_. 

It’s not gonna happen. He gets up, groaning through his teeth. Arches his back in a deep stretch. The women look at him, irked. “Sorry.” He says before taking Dalia’s coffee from her and finishing it. He takes Tina’s bowl of oatmeal too. They frown at him, but don’t say anything. They won’t, he knows, because they’ve been accusing him of falling off the wagon. Know he’s stood before them, not smelling of alcohol, not red-eyed, not hung over, they feel guilty. With a slight shiver, he calculates that he’s not showered in at least two days. He gives Tina back her bowl and wanders off to the bathroom. 

The council of representatives hum spells and offer the morning their thanks and their hope and their bitterness. 

Percival gets into Tina’s car without asking. He puts his groceries down at his feet. He’s gonna be a cop today whether she likes it or not. She sighs loudly when she gets there after saying goodbye to Iris and Dalia. She looks at him for a long awkward minute. He looks straight ahead. She’s got the same pantsuit on, but it’s in cornflower blue. Percival’s wearing the same jacket and jeans he’s had on all week and has borrowed a loose fitting tee from Iris, but even he thinks it’s an ugly colour on her. He’s a jerk. 

“You’re gonna spend all day in the car, you know that right?”

He knows. 

Given Tina’s proximity to Percival, she too is under close observation from their superiors. They’ve taken a homicide case from her and don’t want her anywhere near the gang investigations. She’s meant to be assisting Abernathy with a bodega break in, but she’s got her mind all caught up in this gas pipe explosion. “I just think the timing is a bit too convenient.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

“You do.” She waits for him to admit that he does. He’s not going to. He wants to hear her crock-pot theories. “You know there’s whisperings about Carter coming here. Handing out development money.”

Percival lets a grumble build in his chest before coughing loudly. His voice is nearly whining, “You think some scumbag slumlord wanted to wipe out the tenants so he can possibly cash in.”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, even if that is far fetched, if the pipe was broken deliberately somebody needs to be held accountable. Somebody could have died.”

Percival snorts and waves a hand at their surroundings. “There’s always somebody dying, Tina.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t do that flippant thing – you pretend -” She purses her lips. “How is he anyway?”

“I’m not talking about this.”

“Fine.”

The rest of the day is tense. At one point Tina drives off without him while he sneaked to a payphone to call Gena. Gena wasn’t home. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or not. When it’s too much for him to stand any longer. Her drags her into the _L &H_. Chinese food makes everybody happy.

“Sorry.”

Tina snaps her chopsticks open.

“I’m sorry I hijacked your day today.”

She shrugs. “No biggie.”

He resists the urge to sigh at her. “I know you didn’t go by the station because you didn’t want me there. You’re gonna have a bunch of paperwork to catch up on.”

“Abernathy likes Queenie. It’ll be alright.”

He pours them both green tea and smiles at her. She winks at him and laughs. Everybody likes Queenie, but Abernathy won’t make it easy on Tina tomorrow just because she’s her sister. 

Mrs Liu gives them egg rolls to take home, because she is included in the everybody who like Queenie. Queenie herself, opens the door to them before Tina can get her key out. She hugs Percival tightly and he tentatively pats her back with both hands. 

“I’ve made apple strudel. Come on.”

She’s got _Radio Ethiopia_ playing on the stereo. Patti Smiths’ temper makes Percival feel at home. At the table in the kitchen, Queen is delicately slicing up dessert. Percival is doing a customary flick through Queenie’s box of recently purchased records. 

Tina hands Queenie three mismatched tea plates with one hand and says, “I got rolls.” Lofting her loot in the air with the other, before whispering, “Don’t ask him about it.”

“I would never do such a thing.” 

Plated up, Queenie grins at him as he sits down. “What did you see at _The Victoria_?”

His eyes widen in surprise and then he smiles down at his strudel. Queenie just has a knack for knowing all sorts of things. “ _Fantasia_.”

“Well, fancy that.”

-

It’s Friday. He has to go home. He knows that. He’s been out since Tuesday. Tina and Queenie have gone to work and left him with pointed instructions to eat breakfast and most importantly to lock the door behind him. Tina and Queenie live only a block away from him. It’s a walk he’s done many times, but he feels jangled. Like walking to Alaska would be an easier trip. 

He leans his forehead against his front door, clutching his vegetables that have wilted beyond restoration. Percival can hear him crying from here. Inside, the lounge area of their two-room apartment is littered with open books and records separated from their covers. The cushions with the orange trim have been put under the kitchen table and the soft white crochet blanket is pulled between it and a chair to make a fort. There’s cereal everywhere and a jar of honey is open on the counter a knife has been balanced on top and is drip dripping. 

On the bed, Credence is on his knees. His bangs are mussed where he’s pushing his head into the pillow. He’s taking huge hiccoughing sobs in through in mouth and has a fist wrapped tightly around his cock. The bed is a mess. Percival strides towards him and sits on the edge, asparagus stalks spilling out onto the floor. “Hey. I’m here. I’m here now.” Credence doesn’t stop crying, but allows Percival to take over. 

“Shhh” he hums as he drags Credence into his lap by the scruff of his neck. Credence mouths at Percival’s collarbone, getting his spit on Iris’s t-shirt. His other hand comes up to rest on Percival's chest. “You’re okay. You’re good. So good. I’m here.” He replaces Credence’s hand and grips him carefully. Credence pushes his hips forward urging Percival to go faster. Stroking, stroking, finally, he kisses Credence and Credence comes with a gasp. 

He’s stopped crying. He sits with his legs bracketing Percival’s side. One knee grazing Percival’s belly button. He’s panting and Percival rubs his lower back in soothing circles. Looking down at Credence all he can see is his thick dark eyelashes, his pink open mouth. They’re sat awkwardly; Percival can feel a cramp creeping up his rib cage. He manoeuvres Credence onto his back and lies down on top of him. He uses both palms to smooth back Credence’s hair. His forehead is sweaty and his hair unwashed. It’s okay though. It’s all okay. He kisses Credence and breathes in his sweet exhale. He licks at the honey lingering on Credence’s teeth. 

Credence shudders into him trying to bring his arousal along, but Percival doesn’t want this moment to be about him. He strokes his fingertips behind Credence’s ears. “Come on, focus.” Credence relents and lets his legs fall so that his ankles are resting on Percival’s calves. Percival rubs his thumbs across Credence’s hot and damp cheekbones. The room is muggy from the electric heater in the corner and the heady musk of Credence lingers over them. 

Credence’s breathing slows and Percival lays his head down on his sternum. Brings his hands down so that he has Credence’s torso in his grip. Pulling him into world. Turns, so that Credence is tucked into a curly q and Percival is tucked in behind him. He rubs his hand down Credence’s still sore looking thigh. “There we go.” Credence grips the wrist on his thigh. 

Percival feels drunk when Tina comes banging on the door. Stiff in his sweaty t-shirt and thick denim jacket. Credence’s is still naked and skin has gone cold since the heater auto-switched off. He rolls off the side of the bed and shuffles across the floor in his socks to let Tina in. A couple have been shot in a car. The girl is dead and the boy has been rushed to the hospital. 

Credence looks at the glow in the dark clock; it’s five in the morning. He sits on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, thumb in his mouth and watches Percival scrub a hand through his hair before roughly shrugging out of his jacket as though to listen better to Tina. 

“They think he’s probably going to die. Shot in the head like that, there’s not a lot they can do for him.”

“Right.” Percival puts his hands on his hips. He’s about to ask Tina what she’s doing here, but she answers his question for him. 

“How are you?” She’s looking at Credence like she doesn’t know what to think. She’s mirrored Percival and also has her hands on her hips. Credence looks up at her from under his eyelashes. Unashamedly tired and laid bare. Her voice is the terse voice of a teacher who doesn’t want to scold a child with their parent in the room. He takes his thumb out his mouth and wipes in on the bedcover. He nods at her and shrugs a shoulder. 

Percival coughs. He wants to say, “I’m not a cop, Tina” or “Go bother fucking Abernathy, Tina”. Instead he says, “Did they find the murder weapon?”

She doesn’t look away from Credence. “Mhm, no. But initial observations make them think it’s probably the same one used in that March case.”

Percival is watching Tina watch Credence and it’s starting to feel uncomfortable. “Credence, why don’t you go run a bath?” Percival asks and Credence obeys. 

Tina turns to him sharply. “When were you last here?”

“Stop it.” He walks away from her. Tries to avoid looking at the open honey as he takes a glass out of the cupboard and fills it with water from the tap.

Tina follows him. She roughly tugs the blanket from the table and folds it neatly, places it on table avoiding the spilt milk. She pulls the cushions out from underneath and stacks them on top. She tucks the chairs in. She puts the knife in the sink and screws the honey lid on. She closes the cupboard Percival left open and says, “I don’t think I will stop it. You need to start answering some questions about what’s going on here.”

He rolls his eyes, leans back against the sink. “What are you doing here, Tina?”

For a second the heat leaves her eyes and she pulls her blazer close to her chest. “I. I-. You know what? I forgot that you were suspended. I for-got, okay? So now I’m here, telling you about a case that I only heard through the grapevine. Because I’m in the doghouse too and coming here felt like the right thing to do.”

She gets her own glass out the cupboard and pushes past him to pour a glass of water and leans on the counter next to him.

“And yet, here you are. Pretending you can go on like this.” She waves a dismissive hand over the cereal covered floor.

“What am I suppose to do? I’ve dragged him down with me. He’s got nowhere else to go and anyway.” He takes a sip of water. “He won’t go anywhere even if he had to.” He tries not to smirk, but it’s the only silver lining. Credence’s genuine affection for him.

Tina glares at him. She opens her mouth, but Percival interrupts her agonising, “He’s twenty-four. What do you want from him?”

She puts her glass down forcefully. “I” She exaggerates this by pushing her finger into her own chest. “Don’t want anything from him. I want him to get an education, want him to start speaking again, want him to get a fucking haircut for himself.” She hisses the last two words, before her voice raises an octave. “So that he can be a fully functioning human.” Abruptly stopping her pacing, she stands again with her hands on her hips facing Percival.

He puts the glass in the sink. “He’s fine.”

She huffs a disbelieving laugh. She’s lost hope in him. She throws her arms up in the air. They crash down at her side. “You’re pathetic.”

She slams the door on her way out. 

Percival walks into the bathroom. There’s no steam in the room and he realises that the bath is filling with cold water because their city can’t even sustain that these days. Credence is sat on the edge of the tub, teeth bared and nipping at the skin around his left middle finger. Percival sighs and leans over Credence’s legs to turn the taps off. He sits down next to him and puts his arm around his waist. Credence drops his hands into his lap and leans his head on Percival’s shoulder.

**July 1977**

“Hmm. Yes. Yeah. I got it. Friday. Friday is fine. I’ll sort it out.” There is sweat dripping down Percival’s back and he can feel his pale blue shirt sticking to him. It’s hot, but he’s trying not to let it bother him because the weather reports are predicting a heat wave. 

“He’ll be there. Where else would he be?” Gena wants the baby to come stay with him for the weekend. She’s going to Chicago. Her cousin’s getting married. 

There’s a group of girls watching him. Despite the heat, they’re wearing tube socks. He must look stupid to them. A cop leaning into a payphone, even the hair shorn around his ears damp, trying to have a private conversation out in the street. 

“He doesn’t speak. How’s he gonna upset the baby if he doesn’t say anything?” Gena has studiously not asked questions about the arrival of Credence in his apartment. When she’s trying to be funny, but is actually hurting, she sometimes describes him as his ‘unsolved case’. Credence’s case is very much solved; it’s just that nobody likes the solution. 

“Great. Great. I’ll see you on Friday.” He hangs up the phone. His coins jingle in the machine. One of the girls has a _Bomb Pop_. He goes up to her and holds out his hand. She does nothing. He folds his fingers into palm and then lays them flat several times in quick succession and she hesitantly holds it out to him. Her brow is furrowed, she’s thinking about whether a cop has the right to demand her icy from her. He takes it and bites straight into it with his front teeth and walks off ignoring her and her friend’s “Hey, mister! Mister!” screeching. He’s grateful to have a job still, but not that grateful. 

He goes home at the end of his shift. He wants to take his uniform to the laundromat and it’s a good excuse to avoid Tina at the station. He can’t stand her looking at him, her brain visibly twitching over her desire to try something to get him promoted back up to detective and her still burning disappointment in him. On the kitchen table, there are four oranges cut into chunky smiles and a pitcher of ice tea. Credence himself is nowhere to be seen. 

The likelihood is that he’s with Newt. Or more likely, Newt’s cat. Percival strips out of his uniform and leaves it in a heap by the door. He puts his gun in the bedside cabinet and pulls on some worn gym shorts. Credence comes through the door after he’s finished his fruit and is licking the lid of the peanut butter jar after failing to find anything sweet in the cupboards. 

Credence is wearing a thick wool sweater with a roll over neck. He ignores Percival and sits at the table to drink straight from the pitcher. Percival puts down the peanut butter and grabs his chin, kissing him harshly. He pecks him twice, before plunging his tongue into mouth and pushing his hands into his hair. Credence pants as Percival pulls away. 

“What have you got this on for, sweetheart.” He tugs at Credence’s jumper, pulls the hem up and over his head. “It’s ninety degrees out.” Credence doesn’t object and tugs his sandals off as well. Percival is always surprised by what a tiny thing Credence is. Iris helps him pick out good produce and Credence eats everything he puts down in front of him, but remains scrawny looking. Like a greyhound. 

Percival sits down at the table. “So, here’s the thing. Gena is gonna drop baby off on Friday and he’s gonna stay here for the weekend.”

Credence scratches his forearm. There’s a healing cut there from Newt’s damn cat. He smiles carefully and nods slowly at first and then grins, tilting his head sideways into his hand. 

“Okay. Good. That’s good.” Percival holds Credence’s hand across the table. And squeezes it twice. 

Newt walks through the door without bothering to knock. He’s got a child on his hip and is holding out a beaten up looking paperback. “You forgot this!” He’s out of breath, he has clearly run up the two flights of stairs that separate his apartment and theirs. The child claps her hands and Credence stands and takes her into his arms and Newt puts the book on the table. Percival spies the cover, _Looking for Mr Goodbar_. Credence bounces the child, his mouth opening around the words, “up” and “down”. 

“It’s been hot today?” Newt asks the question with enthusiastic definiteness. 

Percival looks at Newt incredulously and then softens. Newt’s sweet. “Yeah. Real hot. You want some tea?”

“No. We’re good. We just came to give Credence the book." Newt steps closer to Credence and pats his arm. “Oooch. Sorry again about that.” He looks at Percival, “The cat. You know.” 

Percival shrugs. Newt takes the child from Credence and kisses him on the cheek. “We’ll see you both next week.”

“Sure.” Percival’s got no idea why they would both see Newt and presumably his family next week, but he figures it’ll all work out anyway. It’s too hot to exert that much energy. 

Leaving the same way he came, they hear Newt holler “Bye!” from the hallway and then launch into song with the little girl on the way down. 

Credence’s smile is stretched across his face and his eyes close in pleasure as he sits on his knees in front of Percival. He opens them and grabs Percival's wrist. He nods his head to one side. Percival doesn’t know what he means until Credence lays down under the table without letting go, bringing him with. He lies down next to him. The cool tile of the floor feels like heaven. And lets his eyes fall shut.

The baby is probably the same age as Newt’s girl. Percival bought him summer clothes last month. Gena had told him what to get and in what size. He’d asked her if he could just give her the money and she’d hung the phone up on him. He’d driven over to her parent’s house in Kingsbridge and she’d not allowed him in. She’d taken the _Alexander_ ’s department store bag from him pressed the pad of her thumb on the centre of his moustache and closed the door on him. 

He turns his head to look at Credence. Credence has got his hands folded over the tender skin on his stomach and is breathing deeply. It’s now that Percival notices that Credence has come back from Newt’s with a slim streak of red in his hair, at his temple and curling into the black. Newt has obviously introduced him to the wonders of henna. 

He runs a finger along the thread. Heat blooms in chest at the thought of Credence being bold enough to join in with Newt dying his hair. To being brave enough to communicate to Newt that he didn’t want much, just this little leap into the unknown. He pushes a hand against his groin, not wanting to fuck Credence on the hard floor under their table. 

He kisses behind Credence’s ear. “Proud of you,” he whispers. The corners of Credence’s mouth tilt upward and he raises his eyebrows, eyelids paper-thin. Basking in Percival’s praise, he wiggles his shoulders. Percival rolls onto his side, the floor painfully pressing into his bicep, but he doesn’t care. He wraps an arm around Credence and hugs him tight. 

Wednesday morning is bright and just as hot as yesterday. He leans on their bedroom windowsill arms wide so that he can see under the mid-frame. He squints into the sun. Turning to lean against it, he notices the book Newt had borrowed Credence peaking out from under Credence’s thigh, where the bed covers had been pushed down as he got out. He leans forward and takes it. He flicks through before reading the blurb. He doesn’t get far because some poor girl is viciously victimised. He chucks it under the bed and hopes Credence forgets about it. 

Later, sweating in his spare uniform parked on _145th Street_ , he’s idling. Looking out his rear view mirror, not concentrating, getting lost in the heat. Thinking about what books he had to read in high school that he might be able to get out at the library. He’s thinking about whether he could get Credence to edge away from the apartment and to the library himself. He’s watching a couple of kids. They’re messing about in the road. Kicking rubble. 

The dispatcher on the radio makes a quip about how it never rains and it never pours. It takes him by surprise when the kids smash the front window of the _Mishkin_ Pharmacy. He gets out the car quickly and runs to them. The chemist has one by the arm already and the other seemingly didn’t want to leave his buddy to take the blame, so Percival grabs him for good measure. He handcuffs them with the help of the chemist and loads them into the back of his car. On the way to the station, he lights a cigarette. He ignores the wiseass comments from the backseat. The frustration of the situation is starting to eat him up. The neighbourhood crumbling around his ears, these stupid kids stuck in the middle of it all, nothing better to do. 

They knew he was there, he was parked twenty feet away from them, watching them and they went ahead and threw the bricks anyway. In broad daylight. Like basketball gone wild. Turning the ruined streets into their court. They didn’t even try to run away. Even now, in the back of a cop car, they whistle lewdly at a woman on the sidewalk. Ask him if he served in the war. “Did ya kill any little kids?” Jesus. Brag about how this isn’t the first time they’ve been arrested. 

Standing at the front desk with the kids, booking them in with the over-friendly Matthews like they’re going on a fucking day trip instead of being arrested, Tina hands him a can of _Coke_. 

He side-eyes her curtly. “Thanks?”

“No problem.”

He wants to talk to her. He does, but Picquery’s leaving her office. Percival taps his hand on the counter, “Matthews.” Indication that he’s leaving the kids with him and jogs after Picquery. Tina frowns as he ducks past her, but this is important.

“Captain.” Picquery at least stops, even if she doesn’t look up from the file she’s inspecting. “I need Friday off.”

She looks up at that. She doesn’t say anything. Percival wonders what she’s thinking. Maybe about how Percival’s seen a bigger body count than anyone at the station. More likely about stupid Percival, dumb as two short posts, dumb as these Bronx ratkids. Ratchild Percival who came back from Vietnam and silently, no rhyme or reason left his house and his wife. King of the dumb, stupid no-good, bad-dad ratkiddies. Percival who pulled a young man from a burning building and wrapped his coat around him to put out the flames. 

Picquery closes the file. “Someone to cover you?”

Percival doesn’t, but he figures there’s time to scrounge somebody up, blackmail or not. “Sure.”

“Fine. Let Louise know so she can change the rota.”

Picquery walks off and Percival takes a sip from his _Coke_. 

“What are you doing on Friday?” Tina’s hovering too close for this weather. 

He coughs. Holds his can in both hands and rolls it between the heels of hands. “Baby’s coming to stay?” He asks her. He’s not asking her permission, he’s just not sure that this is the best thing for her to hear from him after months of the silent treatment and passive aggressive formalities. 

She folds her arms and looks at the floor before looking up and commenting, “That’ll be nice.” Her mouth is a thin line. He can sense what she’s going to say and mentally braces himself for it.

“Iris says that Newt got Credence to read.” It’s not quite what he was expecting, but it’s the same subject. Still the stuff he doesn’t want to discuss with her. She says it with her eyelids fluttering at half-mast, jutting her head out from her neck, pretending like she doesn’t want to ask like she doesn’t care what the answer is.

He can’t help it. He goes on the defensive. “He always knew how to read.”

Tina plants her feet evenly apart, unfolds her arms. She’s giving up, but hasn’t lost steam. “You think you’re the anti-hero in this story. The cop with the secrets. Who does the right thing in the end.” She takes a step closer to him and narrows her eyes at him. “We all know your secrets. They’re not new. And you’re still not doing the right thing.”

She turns away from him to walk away. 

It’s been building up too long though and it bursts from him like a sudden tidal turn. “Why can’t you just be happy for me?” His voice is louder than he expected and Bezzerides shoots him a glance. He strides over to Tina so that he can talk at a normal volume. “I realised who I was. I did the right thing, I let my wife go. I found Credence and I kept him because he asked me to.”

He breathes in loudly through his nose. “I’m not a detective anymore because I’m being punished for it. I am,” he pauses pretentiously. His anger masking itself in the dramatic. “an anti-hero.” He hates this person he can hear speaking all his inner thoughts without his permission, but he needs her to hear it. They’ve been friends for years and if this is the hill their friendship dies on, he wants her to know his side of the story.

She drags him into the empty break room and closes the door. “This is not about you being gay. I know about _Stonewall_. I voted Beame for Mayor.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“Don’t be like that. Queenie’s my sister. Newt’s my best friend. You’re like a brother to me.” She sighs. Thinking about the past few months. How they’ve avoided each other. How she convinced Iris to go to Percival’s apartment when he was at work and talk to Credence. “It should have gone to trial. Why didn’t you let it go to trial?”

“Because I’m corrupt.” He puts his _Coke_ can on a table littered with half-empty coffee cups. 

“Stop it.”

He leans against the table. “It couldn’t go to trial. He’s still not talking. How was he supposed to testify against his dead mother like that?”

“We could have got him help-“

“Yeah. We’re doing real good at supplying help right now.”

They stand with their hands on their hips. They can hear the wail of a fire truck. Tina looks like she might cry. She hangs her head and he walks towards and pats her gently at the top of her spine. 

\--

“Credence. Hello.” Iris has been planning what she’s going to say on the way over and is disappointed that after all that she still manages to sound like a false-concerned social worker. She was shocked that he’d opened the door. The way Tina described, it was like Percival had locked him up. 

Credence lets her in, he smiles at her. He seems to know who she is. He slices up an apple for her that she didn’t ask for. 

They sit together at the table. Iris eating her apple and Credence reading _The Crying Lot of 49_. It’s a book Newt recently read and has been raving about since. “Did Newt lend this to you?”

Credence nods. 

For a long time she doesn’t know what to say and is thinking about how she has to get to the market soon. She had been drafted in to accost Credence this early in the morning because Tina knew Percival was on the night shift and wouldn’t be at home. It’s just a lucky guess that Credence has matched his sleep schedule to Percival’s. 

Credence has put his book down and appears to be waiting for her to leave. Hyper-aware that conversation is what most people look for in the company of other people and as he can’t provide it… She looks around. She’s always hated coming to Percival’s apartment. It’s too intimate to have the bed next to couch next to kitchen and not have the decency to put up a room divider. Gena would have put a room divider. “Do you want to come to the market with me?”

He shakes his head no and looks at her haughtily from underneath his bangs as if to ask her what answer did she really expect. 

She pulls her handbag onto her shoulder and exhales. “Look.” She knows that Percival’s superiors think he protected a criminal from the eyes of the law. She knows that Tina thinks that he coerced a vulnerable young man into an inappropriate relationship. Iris doesn’t know what to think and has confronted Percival from both stances and got nowhere. 

All this time and this is the first she’s seen Credence in the flesh. He seems well. He’s wearing an open neck linen tunic and a string of wooden beads. His hair at the front is still growing out choppy, but the rest looks good, soft waves near his shoulders now. 

Her voice is caught in her throat. Tangled in what she and Tina thought would be good investigation and the evidence sat before her. She can’t ask him anything. She thinks about when Percival stormed into her and Dalia’s apartment ranting about Tina and her no-good do-good-ing. She’d merely played devil’s advocate and Percival had called her a waste of a smart head and stormed off again. 

She thinks about how a week later he’d called her from _Elks_ bar of all places. He was drunk and crying and she’d winced at the thought that people were probably watching him make a show of himself. He’d told her he was going to drink seven cups of coffee. “Ssshheven!” and buy a million packs of _M &Ms_. “Millions of billions!” and take them home to share with Credence. 

“Percival loves you.”

He nods solemnly and she finds herself nodding too. She’s about to leave, but he gently touches the back of her hand before pointing at the coffee table. _Surf’s Up_ and _The Idiot_ are sprawled across it along with a handful of _Lifesavers_ , a brown glass ashtray and _Where the Wild Things Are_. Credence is grinning and she can’t help but grin back. 

She’s not sure if Credence is pointing out that Percival’s character is laid bare in that small space or if he’s trying to describe all that Percival has introduced him to or something else, anything else. But she holds him by his shoulders and brushes her cheek against his. She nods again and leaves. 

\--

Tina follows him home and he doesn’t say anything to deter her. When Percival stops to buy pizza for dinner she gets out of her own car and copies him. She tails after him up the flights of stairs to his and Credence’s apartment and makes herself comfortable at their table. 

Credence’s eyebrows furrow at her in concentration, in bemusement that Percival has allowed her into their home after Percival’s recent claims that she was a terrible, horrible thing. Percival shrugs at him and so Credence pours her a glass of lemonade. She doesn’t ask him any questions about the night Percival rescued him. She doesn’t ask him any questions about how he feels about his lover. She doesn’t try to make him talk. 

She does tell him about Mr Moretti who owns _Golden Pizza_. She says he always looks at Percival’s moustache and clicks his tongue loudly. Credence grins at this and squeezes Tina’s wrist to get her to tell him more. She says that Mr Moretti doles out little math problems to his regular customers. If they can get it right, in their heads, with no help, not even on their fingers, he’ll give them a free slice. She looks conspiratorially at Credence before indulging him. “Percival never gets them right.”

Credence claps his hands and drums the balls of his feet on the floor. 

After the ice cream that Percival was saving for a special occasion or an especially bad shift, and Tina is saying goodbye she formally shakes Credence’s hand. “It was good to see you again, Credence.” 

He kisses her hand and she manages not to appear completely bewildered. Percival laughs at her and says, “You have found a new fan.”

“That’s good for my self-esteem.”

“Get out of here, Tee.” 

Percival closes the door behind her and walks back over to where Credence is picking up pizza boxes. He pushes them out of his hands and tips Credence’s head down the inch he needs in order to kiss him standing like this. Credence plays back at first, smirking and stretching to his full height. Kisses Percival on his eyebrow. Then ducks his neck so that Percival can give him a deep kiss, hot and heady like the weather. Percival pushes Credence down onto the bed. 

When the lights suddenly go out, Credence flinches hard and manages the knock his chin into Percival’s nose. He sucks in a pained breath through his teeth and Credence rubs his hip in apology. Percival gets up from the bed and flicks the light switch on and off. On and off. The electricity’s defiantly gone. 

From the hall they can hear Newt shout, “It’s okay. I’ve got candles for everybody!”

Percival shakes his head and huffs a laugh. He can’t see properly if Credence is smiling. The dark sometimes bothers him. It suddenly dawns on him how dark it is. Darker than he’s ever seen the city. He looks out the open window. All the streetlights have gone and people are starting the gather in clusters in the road. His police instinct tells him that there’s going to be trouble. He puts his hands on his hips. He knows he should be responsible. He should go down the hall to Mrs Hackett and call Gena. He should call the station and see if they need him to come in. He should light the candles in keeps under the sink. 

What he does instead is put a knee the bed and cup Credence’s face in his hands, “Hey. I’m here. You good?”

Credence nods. He swallows loudly, but nods again.

“Okay, okay.” Percival kisses him and lays him back down so that his body blankets him. A solid weight, the comforting warmth. Slowly his hands move from Credence’s face, down his chest. Reaching under his thin t-shirt to thumb at his nipples. Credence bites his lip in retaliation for that. 

Percival tugs at the waistband of Credence shorts. “Come on.” 

Credence complies and pulls his shirt over his hand before shucking off his shorts. Percival sits back on his heels to watch, just catching the glint of Credence’s teeth in the dark; the flash of the silver maiden’s bracelet Percival gave him. Naked, Credence leans back on his elbows, breathing coming faster for having rushed and bends his knee to press the sole of his foot of Percival’s thigh. He rolls his head to the side. Percival takes the hint and gets naked too. 

He surges forward to kiss Credence firmly on the mouth. Credence’s long fingers pull at the back of his head and Percival grinds his hips down onto Credence. He kisses the side of Credence’s mouth. Kisses the underside of his angular jaw, his Adam’s apple, his sternum. Worries his teeth at the place where his ribs part ways for his stomach. Spreads his tongue across the angry rippled skin under Credence’s belly button. Pecks his lips down to the secret hidden place behind Credence’s balls. 

He nudges Credence’s knees with his shoulders, gets Credence to hold his legs up so that he can lick at his hole. Credence gasps breathily and starts to pant when Percival dips the point of his tongue into the centre of his boy. He rubs his hands at the back of Credence’s thighs, soft in contrast the uneven scarring on the flat of his quads. He brings his little finger to his mouth, slicks it with his saliva before pushing it in alongside his tongue. The cool of the metal of his signet ring contrasting against the heat makes Credence jump before settling into the flow of pleasure.

Percival’s moustache roughs the wrong way over the sensitive skin of his inner thighs when he comes up to gasps in oxygen before smoothing it the right way down the delicate flesh. He wants Credence to make a sound, wants to hear him to compensate for the unknowable darkness. Credence won’t though. Reaching a hand up to help Credence along, Credence comes as Percival pauses to bite at the flesh of Credence’s ass. The only sound of his happiness the grind his teeth. 

Credence’s nails scrape over his shoulders, his thumbnail scratches his collarbone. He rises up and kisses Credence. Credence greedily sucks on his tongue, knowing where it’s been. Feeling close; a shared honesty. His hand circles Percival’s cock and jerks him quickly. 

“Ah. Credence.” He starts him off a litany of Credence’s name before he is silenced with a twisting wrist, getting him to come over his stomach. Percival breathes heavy into Credence’s neck, making the skin there damp. He lays his head on Credence’s chest and Credence’s wraps an arm around him. 

Dozing in the heat of the night and the warmth of what they just did, the noise outside getting rowdier. The sound of emergency sirens increasing, Percival is still not tempted to call into work. He does get up and light a couple of tea lights on the bedside table, but he lays back down next to Credence and strokes a finger over the bridge of his nose. Gently kneads his fingertip into Credence’s slightly squared tip. “You are. You very much are,” he murmurs, thinking out loud. 

Credence looks at him with his dark eyes and in return presses the pads of his fingers against Percival’s mouth. Percival puckers his lips to kiss them, before sucking the first two into his mouth. Laving them with spit. Credence maintains his eye contact, while he reaches behind himself. Credence likes this better than anything else they do. He always does it like this. Ever since Percival taught him, he does it himself. Touching the place inside him that he didn’t know existed with Percival watching. 

Credence bites his bottom lip, finding that spot. Rubbing his fingertips against it like they had against Percival’s mouth. Percival kisses at Credence’s neck. He’s as smooth there as he is anywhere else. He shaves diligently and with an apparent vanity that Percival had not expected of him when they first met properly in the hospital, Credence handcuffed to the bed, terrible haircut making him look ten years younger. 

His other hand grips at Percival’s pec’, palm cupping him, thumb roughing over the hair there. When Credence’s hips snap forward, his arousal pushing at Percival’s, he slots them together, his hands encapsulating Credence’s slim waist, urging them together. “That’s it.” He runs a hand over Credence’s behind, pulls his hand away, interlocks their fingers before using their combined hands to guide Credence’s leg over his hip. 

Pushing in is always too much, Credence is tight and Percival is thick. Credence arches his back, letting Percival take control. He pushes in, to the hilt and settles. Credence kisses him delicately, licks at Percival’s bottom lip, allows Percival to gasp against him as he pulls his dick nearly all the way out of Credence. After several agonisingly slow thrusts, Credence turns onto his back, pulling Percival with him, letting him speed up. 

He leans on his forearms either side of Credence’s head, bracketing him. Credence hooks his knees close, low around Percival’s rib cage and stares at him. Percival stares back. It feels quiet here despite everything going on outside. Percival comes suddenly, still buried inside. Credence grimaces, but grins at the implication. “’orry,” Percival grunts. “Sorry, “ he pants into Credence’s ear. Credence raises an eyebrow at him. “’kay. I’m there. Jus’ lemme.” Percival goes down on him swiftly, taking his hard length into the back of his throat. He bobs his head once, twice, the length of his nose brushing against the scarred hollow of Credence’s belly. Credence grips the short hair at the back of his neck and finishes. Percival swallows because he wants to. Because he can. Because he likes to. He’s falling asleep already. 

He feels old, but so good. Credence is hot all over, but pulls Percival up anyway so that he can kiss him again. They kiss for a long time. Percival only staying awake by Credence knowing all his weak spots, the ones that make his dick want to get hard again. The little dimples in the small of his back that Credence is pressing against, his naval that Credence dips his thumb into, his moustache that Credence kisses reverently. 

If Credence could make a sound Percival would know that he would whine when he strokes his thumbs over his protruding hip. Knows that he would moan at Percival’s teeth gentling his collarbones. Knows that he would giggle at his middle fingers pressing along each crease where his ass meets his thighs. Credence is young. He’s hard again, but happy to find enough friction against Percival’s hip. Percival watches him closely. Can see the shimmer of red at his temple from the candlelight. Watches his mouth stay parted. Watches he’s beautiful silent boy come on him. 

He should get up. Get a damp towel. Go see if Newt and his family are all right. Call Gena. Call the station. He doesn’t want to. He turned the radio on under the pretence of being a responsible adult. There are reports that everybody should stay inside. It’s not clear if this is intended as a warning to avoid looters or to warn the public against becoming looters. In any case, Percival figures it’s probably not a message for him, he should be out doing his job. 

On the bed behind him, Credence is looking up at the ceiling clearly listening to the radio, but absentmindedly stroking his hand over his chest. Percival kisses his nipple and Credence grins mischievously at him, before slotting their mouths together. Credence’s hand wander to Percival’s groin. Fisting his dick gently. Percival knows what Credence wants, but he’s not there yet. Not hard enough to go again. Credence won’t suck him off. Percival never argues. He won’t let him fuck him from behind either and he doesn’t argue with that. It’s not good manners. 

He lets Credence push his back to the headboard and sit in his lap. Their bed frame is at least fifteen years old and was here when Percival moved in, it protests loudly when Credence leans up on his knees and lock his elbows around Percival’s neck. Licks along Percival’s ear, draws Percival’s tongue into his mouth with his own. He sinks down onto Percival’s dick delicately, gradually until he’s fully seated. He loosens his elbows and bites playfully at Percival’s cheekbone. Pushes his nose into the dip under his eye. Kisses the freckle just below that. Percival holds him still. It’s a test of endurance, but he doesn’t want to fuck yet, just wants to feel Credence around him. 

Feeling grounded and weightless at the same time. Just them, together in the dark quiet of their apartment while all of New York burns in the unplugged chaos outside. Before long it’s too much and Credence lifts up, lets Percival hold him and set the rhythm of a slow rocking motion. This time Percival has the patience to withdraw and Credence nods to let him jerk himself off over the mottled pale and scar tissue pink of Credence’s stomach. “Gets me so worked up, you doing that.” Credence comes without being touched and brushes wet kisses over Percival’s jaw, catching his breath. 

Curling together on top of the sheets, Percival’s eyes catch the soft bruise of the sky, it’s starting to get light. He falls asleep thinking that he was never going to do the right thing. 

Percival wakes up to Credence straddling his waist. He startles, but settles when he gets his bearings. He feels groggy, achy. He rubs the heels of his hands into eyes and cranes his neck to look at the clock. It’s past one in the afternoon. He has very much missed work. The radio is still on and is assuring people that the police and fire crews are doing their best to restore order and that the power will be returned to service as soon as possible. 

His arms fall heavy at his sides and he strokes his fingers over Credence’s smooth calves. He moves his hands to cradle Credence’s bottom so he doesn’t topple over as he sits up to lean against the propped pillows. He looks at Credence through hazy eyes. He’s got tiny gym shorts on with a shooting star motif on the thigh that makes him think they might belong to Dalia. Or at least have once belonged to her. Credence has a plate balanced between his legs, at an awkward angle on Pervical’s stomach. He’s eating half a grilled peanut butter sandwich and is nudging the other half across the plate towards Percival. He takes it and eats tiredly, messily getting crumbs on his chest. Credence brushes at them, kissing him with his mouth full. 

When they’re done, Percival puts the plate next to the burnt out tea lights and holds Credence close to carry him into the bathroom. He sits him down on the edge of the tub and turns the tap on. Inevitably, there’s no hot water so Percival dunks a washcloth under the stream, lathers in with a soap bar and warns Credence, “It’s cold.” Slowly he lowers the cloth to Credence’s chest. Credence hisses, but takes Percival’s hand and stands up in the puddle of cold water and lets Percival sponge them both down. 

In towels, heading to the couch Percival turns off the radio. He’s been a cop for a long time. He didn’t leave for Vietnam until ‘66 and saw what stupid shit people do in a blackout. People get angry and clump together; cops do the same. The electricity providers and the Mayor’s office argue about who or what to blame. Insurance companies rip everybody off. It sounds like it’s worse this time, a new era of street play-crime, but he’s burying his head to it. 

He pulls a small wooden box out from under the couch and Credence swings his knees over his thigh, falling into the gap of his lap. He carefully rolls the joint, Credence watching with curious, but not unknowing eyes. He doesn’t buy booze to keep in the house anymore and he tries to avoid stashing sweets to replace it. This, however, is always under the couch. Just in case. 

The thought of the baby arriving and then going into work on Monday is making sweat prickle on his back. He anxiously runs a hand around the back of his neck and takes a hit. He breathes in deeply and sits back. Holding it in his chest before blowing smoke upward. Credence rubs his cheek against his neck. He lets the drug take effect for a moment and then sucks in another lungful. This time he turns his head to Credence, who instinctively seals their mouths together; taking in what Percival offers. 

Credence lets his eyes fall heavy and one leg slip to the floor. He moves the towels out of the way and slowly, lazily jerks himself off and does the same to Percival. He strokes down Credence’s head to the base of his back and up again like he’s Newt’s cat. They watch the burnt remains in the brown glass ashtray and listen to Percival’s stomach growling.

At some point in the afternoon, Percival puts on _If I Could Only Remember My Name_ and makes Credence sticky noodles with lots of sweet chilli sauce. They don’t notice the return of the power until it goes dark and on instinct, Credence flicks the light switch and the room is illuminated. 

-

Chad is a chubby child with a face of freckles. His cheeks are red from the sun. He’s holding Gena’s hand. As they enter the apartment Gena says to Percival, “I bet it’s been a rough couple of nights for you, huh?”

Percival does not want to admit to his ex-wife that during the biggest crisis his city has seen in the last decade he did not put on his police uniform but stayed home fucking his. His Credence. And getting high. With his Credence. “Yeah. Kids, you know.”

She frowns at the kitchen. Credence spent at least half an hour this morning cleaning it while Percival did the bathroom and changed the bed sheets, but apparently Gena is not impressed. “The streets look terrible. Window glass every where.”

He resists the urge to tell her the streets looked shitty before the blackout. He does not want to get into a debate with her about the morality of those with nothing left to lose looting stores at prime opportunity. He grunts and bends down, knees creaking, to Chad’s height. “Hey, buddy.”

Chad hides behind his mother’s legs. Percival stands up straight. “Right.”

“He’ll be fine,” Gina says as she passes him a duffle bag. “I’ll be back on Sunday morning.” She kisses Chad on the head and then she’s gone, long straight hair swinging over her shoulder as she goes. 

Credence is sat at the kitchen table watching Gena carefully ignore him. Percival takes Chad by the hand and leads him a chair. He dutifully clambers up onto it and folds his hands at the table like a mini politician. Percival laughs softly at him. 

Chad regards Credence seriously. “I like your, erm.” Chad's small, clumsy fingers pull at his own cotton-covered chest. “T-shirt.” 

Credence looks down at himself. He’s got on a pale yellow button-down with a wide collar that is outdated now, but is one of a bunch of items Percival grabbed hurriedly from a thrift store when Credence first came to live with him. Percival thinks Chad probably means he likes the flower patch somebody has done a rough job of ironing onto the breast of the shirt. 

In a bizarre flicker of movement, Credence gives him a double thumbs up. Percival coughs to hide his laughter. And then is kicked by karma when spittle catches in his throat and the sudden fit has him forced to stand up to keep his aching body from knocking repeatedly against the hard wood of the chair.

Credence had returned the favour last night. Eyes soft from the pot, feeling full and warm from dinner. Had spread Percival’s legs, fingered him not nearly enough because Percival had wanted him inside too soon. Thrust his sharp hips, bared Percival’s neck to him by pulling his head back by the long hair that trails from the top of his head. Credence had sucked the tiny gold hoop Percival wears in one earlobe into his mouth. Sucked at his Adam’s apple for too long. Percival sighing softly at Credence’s earnest ministrations in taking his sweet time finding the firework of nerves that rock him from being hard to touching his own cock. Clenching around Credence, his shivering thighs weak around his waist. 

Percival pushes his hands down on the back of the chair. “Have you eaten breakfast, Chad?”

“Uh-huh.” Chad crawls under the table to his duffle bag. “I’ve got crayons!” Percival bends at the waist to look. Chad is sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling out a dog-eared colouring book from under his pyjamas and rummaging around for the pack of crayons. Credence crawls after him and watches Chad continue to look for the crayons while he folds the pyjamas and put them back in the bag. Percival decides to leave them to it. He moves stiffly over to the coffee pot. 

At bedtime, Percival is unsure what to do with Chad. He doesn’t want to put him on the couch, but he’s not sure how Credence would feel about him sharing the bed. He comes out of the bathroom to find Credence curled on his side, with Chad leaning his back against Credence’s stomach, using him like a little armchair. He’s got _Where the Wild Things Are_ open on his legs and is slowly sounding out words to Credence. 

On Saturday they walk to the _Essex Street Market_. Percival and Chad go to the market. Iris is showing Chad how to bundle radishes neatly, when Abernathy claps Percival on the shoulder. “Damn son, you’re looking stressed.”

Percival’s mouth aches around an awkward smile. “Erm.”

“You did good over the past couple of days, Percival. Over three thousand arrests. You brave men did that.” Percival doesn’t say anything. “It’s important that Picquery knows you have accepted your place as a beat cop.”

The heat suddenly feels very overwhelming. Percival wants Chad to hold his hand very badly, but he’s still talking to Iris unaware that anything out of the ordinary is happening. Daddy is talking to a colleague. 

Percival coughs and puts his hands in his back pockets. He knows that Abernathy knows he was not present during the blackout. He knows that in the dark of the crime wave, the bedlam of the twenty-five hours that felt like a week, Abernathy is the only one who noticed his absence. Percival hangs his head before daring to look at Abernathy’s shark grin. Abernathy grabs his hand and shakes it tightly. “Good man, Percival.”

He walks away, a casual lope and looks back once at Percival. Who does nothing but wring his hot hands in front of him. 

-

Tina’s got Newt’s cat on her lap and is firmly petting her. The cat is purring vigorously. Every so often Newt chuckles at it. Newt adopts everything that crosses his path, stranded cats, once a bat. Children. None of the neighbours say anything about the children. They know that they could have fallen prey to worse fates. The neighbours don’t even say anything to Jacob. They might avoid his bakery, but they don’t say anything. 

Newt is something else. Newt who wears a great blue frock coat in the winter and goes shirtless with white bellbottoms in the summer. Newt, who sings _Atomic Forest_ songs in the hallway and had a lizard live on his shoulder for a bit. Newt, who borrowed fabric paint and safety pins from Queenie so he could detail ‘Faggot’ on the back of his leather jacket. “Just so they know how to spell my name.”

She worries about Percival. He is not strong enough for that kind of world outlook. Percival who just wants the kids to have cool music to dance to and the neighbourhood to have enough good produce. Peaches, avocado. Pears, he likes Pears. Percival who since Vietnam can barely get through a kid’s film, just wants to do good. Be good. 

-

“You had a good weekend, huh?” Gena ruffles Chad’s hair and picks his bag up from the floor. 

Chad bites his bottom lip and waves his toy train at her. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then mister.” 

Credence hid from Gena in plain sight at the kitchen table when she dropped Chad off, today he’s adopted the same technique but from the couch. He’s looking down, pretending to make sure all of Chad’s crayons have been packed away. 

Percival shuffles his feet and crosses his arms. He watches Gena’s eyes hover at Credence’s wrist, flick to the red in his hair and Percival is blindsided by a memory of her in the hospital. Percival hadn’t left the foot of Credence’s bed, he was near falling asleep standing up and Gena had come with thick cheese and salad sandwiches, lukewarm coffee in a flask. “You’re doing the right thing. You’re a dad. And a cop. You just want to protect him.”

Percival had hugged her and leant his head on top of hers. 

It strikes Percival that in another universe Gena and him might have had Credence come live with them. Gena might have been able to get him to talk with her ability to gloss over things that hurt and come back to attack them, blow them into confetti smithereens when they hurt less. Credence might have been able to tell a jury about his mother. The emotional blackmail, the overworked turmoil, the violent fervour that sent their home up into flames. Credence would babysit Chad and he and Gena would get dressed up and go dancing. 

Percival hadn’t lived with Gena a long time before he met Credence. They hadn’t gone dancing even longer than that. Percival watches as Credence skirts his way around the edge of the room to the kitchen to wash up the dishes. As much as Percival would like to give Credence this fantasy, the story where somebody found out sooner, he can’t. Credence is an adult. He doesn’t talk, but he’s good. He’s fine. 

**October 1977**

Percival is not on duty, but Tina should probably be doing something at the station. In any case, they are both stood on the edge of _Charlotte Street_ on the day of the President’s arrival. Tina had scoffed at his cream coloured limousine, but hasn’t said anything since. The day is relatively tranquil. The police are out in force, but are a mere show secondary to Secret Service. The neighbourhood has not turned out to welcome Carter with open arms. 

He’s not here to make any grand speeches. “He’s seeing what can be done to tide us over,” Picquery declares in a low voice from behind them. They turn to look at her. They weren’t expecting her to be here, let alone stand with them. 

Tina can’t help herself. “Tide us over?”

Picquery looks at her with sharp eyes. Percival thinks this is the first time he’s ever seen her in skivvies. He can’t believe she dresses like this normally and can only conclude that the suede skirt and unflattering sweater is her attempt at blending in with Bronx peons like him and Tina. “He thinks a park will make this all better. He’s got no idea, of course, what daily life is like here.”

“Of course not,” Percival agrees. 

He gets a sharp Picquery look of his own for that. She’s checking to see if he’s being sarcastic. She appears to give up this line of internal questioning and cocks a hip to the side. “That nut we caught back in the summer, the one trying to cleanse the city. He would have loved this.”

Tina is awestruck that Picquery talks like a real person, or a real if disillusioned, cop at any rate, and can’t seem to gather anything to say just yet. Percival helps her out. “He sure would.” It’s not much, but enough to get them back to watching the leader of the free world tottering over the rubble of the dead street, deaf to the nearby whispers of a group of kids in sweater vests who should be in school. 

-

It’s Halloween and Newt opens the door to Percival and Credence the way he has greeted everybody for two weeks. “The Yanks! The damn Yankees!”

Percival nods and thrust a box of orange candies into Newt’s hands and pats him firmly on the shoulder. “Yeah. They won. Great job.”

The child is Newt and Jacob’s fifth. The fifth one to arrive in their makeshift family. He doesn’t know how old any of them are. Out of all of them, he is the most likely to be in the kitchen now. He’s quieter than the rest. More like Jacob than Newt. He’s got eyes that are too big for his face. He’s too perceptive and gets on well with Queenie because of it. Percival's hands are still on the door handle. He might be a bit tipsy. He grips the handle and bends his knees, face towards the ground and arches his back. 

He stands and covers his temporary reliance on the handle with a swift brush down of the front of his blazer. His hands idle, they quickly soften over the edges of the material and tug the back hem. He puts his hands on his hips. The child is watching him. 

Percival is lighting reminded that he himself has never been young. The child smiles and says, “Are they still playing the game?” Queenie had written famous people in sharpie on the backs of playing cards and had sat them all in a circle, taking turns to lick and stick the cards to their foreheads and then to try and guess whom they had. 

He nods, coughs. Cups his hands under the corners of his smart black blazer before sitting next to the child. “Yes. Your father was Françoise Hardy.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Percival grunts. “Neither did your father.”

“Did dad?”

“Yeah. He’s finding the record now.”

The child thoughtfully points out that, “He likes French stuff.”

Percival puts one of Jacob’s bat-shaped, cream filled pastries into his mouth. 

As if summoned by pleased taste buds, Jacob comes into the kitchen. “Percival! You’re missing Dalia try to guess that she’s that _Pepper_ cop-lady.” Jacob picks the child up and takes his seat before setting him on his lap. Percival likes Jacob. He’s got a moustache. “And I’m introducing them to _La Question_.” He says it with a trilling French accent and the child laughs at him and pats his hands on his cheeks. 

“Don’t want to miss that.”

“No sir. You do not.” Jacob grins and reaches to take a pastry and puts it in the child’s mouth with much sniggering and cream smearing. “Credence likes it.” Jacob winks at Percival and Percival snorts and pushes him sideways. 

The kids have all gone to bed. Newt and Tina have their heads bent low over the cover of the _Velvet Underground_ record Jacob has just put on. Tina’s swiping at the pumpkin juice she’s just smudged on it. Jacob placed the needle so that _Venus in Furs_ plays first. Percival is drunk, but it feels good, not scary. Not like he has something to atone for. Dalia has made coffee and is telling Queenie about how you have to slurp it loudly for it to taste any good. Iris is pulling off her witches’ hat and giggling at them. 

Credence has his eyes closed and is gently swaying to the music. His long black curls spill over his shoulder, his sharp jaw line glows in the dimly lit room. Percival comes up behind him. Smoothes his hands over his hips; daringly dipping the tips of his middle fingers into the waistband of Credence’s tight black jeans. Percival pulls him close and kisses his neck. Credence turns around in his arms and puts his hands on his shoulders, sways their hips together in time with Lou Reed’s slow drawl. Credence looks down into Percival’s eyes. “Hello.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s 1978. New York is still a tough as nails city. Percival, Credence and their friends try to navigate it best they can.

**February 1978**

Newt brought home _jaleebi_ from _Kalustyan’s_ which had all the kids singing until way past bedtime. But it’s given Jacob ideas this morning. Saffron’s expensive, but it smells so good. He’s rationed it by adding it to milk and is using it to glaze bagels. He’s wondering if sprinkling sesame seeds too is going to be too much when Dalia walks into the bakery. “Salâm, chetori?” she calls.

“Salâm, sobh bekheir! I’m well, moja droga. Come, come on, taste this.”

She crosses her arms, wrapping her pink wool waistcoat closer to her body and walks behind the pastry display case and through the open door to the kitchen. Jacob has on a thin undershirt and an apron that has seen too many washes. He has flour on his face. 

Dalia smiles at him when he looks up from the mixing bowl of dough. She presses her palms into Jacob’s soft cheeks and purses her lips in an exaggerated pout, looks at her nose to make her eyes bug and when Jacob laughs and pats the side of her elbows she brushes the flour away. 

He passes her the blue and white jug with the saffron milk and offers her a teaspoon. 

“It’s saffron.” Her voice is high with surprised delight. She sucks her teeth. “You know who would love this?”

Jacob pulls a spoon from his apron pocket and sips his own taste from the jug, shaking his head minutely, eyes waiting for her answer. 

“Credence.” 

He swallows and throws his head back with a laugh, “Yes!” Leans over to put the jug in the fridge. He delves his hands into the bowl of dough and vigorously halves it. He slaps it down on the bench. “Wash up. Help me finish these bagels. We’ll take some over this afternoon.”

Dalia takes her waistcoat off and rolls her sleeves up. Over the sound of the water running from the tap into the deep butcher’s sink, Jacob asks her, “How does Credence feel about sesame seeds?”

 

The trouble is, Percival thinks, is that Credence still hasn’t left the apartment block. Or it’s not that, but the fact that there’s no reason for him to. After trundling all the kids to the library, Newt always collects books for Credence featuring various horrors that Percival still doesn’t approve of. Iris comes over when Percival works the night shift and the two of them sit in comfortable silence, drinking green tea and peeling oranges for breakfast. Once, much to Percival’s fury, Jacob even got his priest to visit. 

The priest was a nice gentleman, who wasn’t wearing his vestments when he ducked into their small home. Despite what Credence had whispered about forgiveness, Percival feels there really was no need. Not on a Tuesday evening like that. 

He’s scraping his molars over the hard shell of a _Blow Pop_ , trying to get at the bubblegum when Tina comes to stand in front of his desk, dragging him away from his thoughts. She’s wrapped up in a thick NYPD coat. “Dang it’s cold outside.” She puts two cups of coffee down before sitting in Bezzerides’s wheeled office chair and scuttling it over. “Did you hear they caught that serial killer in Florida?”

Percival lazily swings his own chair to face her. “Hmmm.” He makes a loud crackling sound, teeth sinking into the soft centre of the lolly. Tina frowns at him. 

She frowns at the floor. “It’s terrible, but geez, what I wouldn’t give to be somewhere as warm as Pensacola right now.”

He raises his eyebrows at her and they share a smirk. Percival tosses his lolly stick into the wastepaper basket. He takes a long drag of the coffee, it sears his throat, but it really is too cold to mind. He wipes his moustache with the flat of fingers. “Do you think if it snowed, Credence would go outside?”

Tina reaches over his knees for her coffee and sighs. She carefully keeps the paper cup first in her left hand to reach her right out of huge coat-cuff and then she swaps. Settling down with it huddled close to her face, fingertips touching either side, inhaling steam. She sighs. “No.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t think he would go outside if it snowed.”

“You can’t just say no.”

“Why not? You asked me if I thought he would and I don’t think he would.”

“You’re just being facetious. Is this because I didn’t order dumplings on Saturday?’

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She deliberately looks down to Percival’s stomach before meeting his eyes. “If anything, I’m pleased you didn’t order dumplings.” She takes a sip of her coffee, the corner of her mouth twitching.

He pushes the heel of his boot into the leg of her chair so that she is wheeled about a foot away. He stands and walking back wards with his arms spread, palms up, says, “I’m gonna call him. I’m just gonna ask him.” His shoulders rise in false-nonchalant shrug and leaves to go to the payphone a block away from the station. 

He puts an elbow on the hard metal of the box and traps the receiver in the cradle of his neck. He waits out the rings. “Hey.”  
Across the street, a woman is arguing with a man in a tank top. She’s holding a rent book up and waving it in his face.

Mrs Hackett picks up the phone. She’s a good woman. She only takes a moment to ask him about Chad before she says she’ll fetch Credence for him. 

Percival listens to the calm silence on the other end of the line. It’s thick, but not unhappy. “Hey sweetheart. Are you warm enough? There’s that extra duvet under the bed if you need it. Don’t turn on the heater though, I’m worried about the wiring.” 

He coughs. He’s grown used to conversations with Credence being one-sided. A habit to break. He coughs again. 

“Jacob and Dalia are here.” Credence speaks slowly and quietly. Measuring the worth against the value of saying them. Checking each one is true. 

The woman is crying and has the book spread under her fists against the man’s chest. 

Percival tugs at the small hoop in his ear. “Good. That’s good. Did they bring food?”

Credence doesn’t respond straight away. Percival has had to learn to be patient because sometimes this means that the answer isn’t going to be said, not golden on the scale. Other times it means that the words are platinum cufflinks, strings of pearls and that Percival needs to see it for himself. 

After long enough that Percival begins to worry about how much time his quarters buy him he says, “Okay, okay.”

In bravado, he had walked away from Tina, buoyed with confidence in his knowledge of Credence. Had felt normal. He was going to telephone his lover during work hours to check on him. Into the hall of the station, the realisation slunk around his waist and spat at him that he couldn’t call Credence within ear-shot of his colleagues like that. 

He’d walked around the outside of the building and the thought had grown to a vicious yell, he couldn’t flirt with Credence over the phone like Matthews calling his wife. Credence is nobody’s wife. 

Telling Mrs Hackett that Chad had picked up a new interest in elephants this month and the thought screaming, nails biting into the warm meat of his brain that no-good rat-boy Percival couldn’t even afford a home telephone and that even if he could Credence wouldn’t fucking say, ‘hello’…

He turns roughly away from the couple whose dispute has edged into the tearful cuddling stage, out there on the street, no coats on. He puts his hand up against the side of the payphone and kicks his foot back and forth in the scrubby tarmac at the base. “Credence.” His voice is irritated and he doesn’t know how to stop it. “Credence, if it snowed. Would you like that? Would you like the snow?” He whispers, “We’d make a snowman.”

He can hear Credence breath in. Air held in his mouth, “I’ve seen snow before.”

Percival slams the phone down on the hook. He does it a second time for good measure. Lets slip a sharp cry as he does it a third time. He turns around, slicks his hair back with both hands. The couple huddle on stoop steps watch him with narrowed eyes. 

He wants to arrest them. Hollering in the street like that. Disturbing the peace. Bending his knees, arching his back his looks up at the grey sky and bends over, stares at the grey sidewalk. He clenches his knees in stiff fingers, eyelids squeezed shut. His brain reruns silky green and navy light across his vision. Gena would never get caught fighting in the street like that. Tina maybe. Iris definitely has.

That shop-keep in Vietnam. Sweeping the space outside her store, leaves scattering over him. Him laughing because what else could him do. Brushing them from his uniform, pulling gum from his pocket and giving it to her husband sat in a white plastic garden chair. As though they shared something in common. 

He stands up straight with his hands on his hips. The man in the tank top has the rent book and is circling dates in biro while the woman looks carefully over his shoulder. He pats his pockets, checks he still has his badge. As he begins walking back to the station, he lights a cigarette, inhaling.

That evening, he gets into Tina’s car. She doesn’t turn on the ignition. “You’re not coming back to ours you know?”

He ignores her and searches her glove compartment for candy. 

“I’m not taking you to Iris and Dalia’s either.”

He stops rifling through a collection of map books and turns to her. 

“I don’t know what’s got you in such a bad mood. But you can’t do that weird thing where you avoid going home.”

He grabs his bag from between his feet and gets out of the car. His arm dramatically swings as he closes the door with too much force. He spreads his hands on the frame and glares through the window at her before striding away. He slopes around the car park, stands at the far corner and frowns at Tina’s taillights. He stomps back over and sits down again in the passenger seat.

She turns the ignition on. “Credence will be waiting for you.”  
They drive in silence. When she pulls up to his apartment block she puts her hand on his shoulder and grips it tight. Her nails will leave indents in the leather of his jacket. His spies her smile out the corner of his eyes and puts his hand over hers. It’s warm in the car. He can see that Credence must be in the kitchen because the light is on and it looks like it might be warm in there too. 

Credence has the _Nicoletta_ album on that Jacob bought him for Christmas. Her soft French rings out fierce. He’s sat at the kitchen table and has an omelette and an off-colour bagel laid out for Percival. Apple juice too. 

He looks up from the book he’s reading when Percival drops his bag by the door. Percival stands over him, clutches his jaw between a cold hand. Credence reaches up and rubs his thumbs over Percival’s thick eyebrows, runs the edge of his thumb-pads over his slightly greasy glabella and smoothes the wrinkles in his forehead. Percival sits down and takes off his coat, strokes Credence’s thigh. Anger cleared like early morning smog. “Tell me hello.”

Credence presses his lips together. They roll carefully, pale pink to red. He pushes Percival’s plate towards him and tucks the prongs on the fork under the shiny yellow of the egg. He looks from the plate to Percival and kisses him, eyes open, watching. Kitten licks the centre of his moustache and begins to read again. 

A slab of a book _Don Quixote_ and he knows Credence is bored by the slow farce of it, but he hasn’t said he doesn’t mind if Credence doesn’t finish it because that would be a lie. He likes watching Credence nipping at the nail-crease of his pointer finger, attention drifting as he ploughs his way through it.

Percival tears the bagel in half before taking a bite. Credence snorts at him chewing thoughtfully. “What is it?”

Credence pinches at the space between Percival’s knee and his calf, getting him to guess.

He swallows and runs his tongue over his lips, collecting sesame seeds. “It tastes like those sweets Newt buys. It’s saffron.”

Credence nods and rewards him with another kiss. 

Later, wrapped in both the duvets Percival owns, and wearing nothing, Credence with his knees spread either side of his hips, breathing gentle laughter into Percival’s neck as he moves his middle fingers into the groove between Credence’s ass and his thighs, gentling the soft skin there, Credence sits up, his hand over Percival’s chest and looks at him from under a thick fringe of curls. “Hello.”

Percvial kisses Credence’s nose. Bites at his cheekbone as he moves them so that he can press Credence into the bed. Kisses his sternum wet with his tongue. Pecks his lips at the burn scars over Credence’s stomach and thighs and lower, takes Credence’s cock into his mouth. 

He breathes heavy and drags his fingertips up from Percival’s neck into his hair. Keeps him tight to him, as Percvial allows Credence to move his hips forward, setting the pace. Pecival swallows, encouraging Credence deeper into his throat. Swallows again when Credence pulses his release. Swallows Credence’s tongue when he reaches down to take Percvial’s dick into his slight hand, jerking quickly. Rubs his little finger into the divots in Percival’s lower back, making him moan quietly.

Credence wipes his hand on the eiderdown and Percival click his teeth, but brushes the hair out of Credence’s eyes and wraps an arm around him, hugging him close. His fingers dapple over the skin of Credence’s shoulder and Credence tucks his hands in prayer formation between Percival’s legs, the hair there rough, but the space a warm cove. 

They don’t have any curtains and so it is the sun that wakes him. The sun is winter sleepy and so it is with dread that Percival knows that he is late for work. Credence has shifted away from him in the night and has his arms flung out, one over Percival’s ribs. He has accepted the inevitable, the morning is creeping on. He takes Credence’s wrist and constricts it like a boa between his grasp. Credence wakes with a start at the sudden pain and whirls to slap Percival across the face with his free hand. It is cold in the room and they linger, staring. Percival angles his head awkwardly and presses a dry kiss on Credence’s areola before going to get in the shower. 

He decides not to go straight to work. He digs through the wash hamper and piles towels, his spare uniform, thick jumpers, jeans, underwear into a deep plastic carrier. He zips it up. It’s heavy. “I’m going to the laundromat.”

Credence is absent-mindedly licking margarine from a knife. He wrinkles his nose. He strips the Yankees t-shirt he’s wearing over his head and holds it out to Percival. He looks at him, coy. Puts a hand between his naked legs. Shifts his wrists against his hardening length. Percival laughs, takes the shirt, blows a raspberry on Credence’s bicep. “You’re good. I’m going.”

A small pair of yellow sweatpants has been muddled in with the wash. Percival watches them spin through the dark of his clothes and hopes Chad won’t mind if they get dulled. Gena’s cross at him because Chad refuses to get his hair cut. He wants it long, like Credence. His sticky child hands always find their way to twirling Credence’s curls into loose ringlets, pretending he is braiding. Credence laughs and doesn’t correct him because he doesn’t know how to make hair plaits either.

There’s a lot of stuff Credence doesn’t know how to do. A collection of things he can’t do properly. He always gets buttons wrong. Or gives them up half-way through. He doesn’t know how to play whist and always spills when he pours milk. He can’t say his esses properly, which was a surprise. Despite everything, he’s okay with the cooker, but he can’t leave the house. 

Percival uses his fingernail along the paper of a roll of mint _Lifesaves_ and puts one in his mouth. 

\--

“Hello” Percival moves from the end of the bed and sits in a metal chair to the side of the young man. “You must be Credence Barebone.”

The boy, sat up against stiff pillows, watches him with dark eyes and doesn’t say anything. He self-consciously smoothes a hand over the fringe of a too short bowl-cut. Seemingly satisfied, he wiggles his shoulders until the covers completely cover him again except for his tiny wrist, handcuffed to the bed frame. He shakes his head. 

“You’re not Credence Barebone?”

The boy’s eyes squint. 

“Just Credence?”

His eyes open clearly. 

“Okay.”

Tina had told him that she’d looked into the family. The Barebone name wasn’t legally real, it was a faction label that religious fanatic, Mary Lou Jones had bestowed upon herself and her charges. The boy was the eldest, twenty-something, but here under the pale green blanket, jaw tight with pain, looking barely into his teens. 

The fire had been obscene. The firecrew had been late to answer the call, too many fires to fight in the Bronx these days. When Percival had arrived and spotted Credence, a searing-desperate silhouette in the doorway, fire breathing through his stomach, his voice shouting for his sisters Percival had bolted for him. 

He pours a glass of water. “So what are we going to do with you, hey?”

\--

Captain Picquery is sat at her desk, but has her office door open. She’s waiting for Percival to finally make his presence known. She spies him strolling past her, not in his uniform, she calls out him and he leans on her doorway. 

“Come on in, sit down.”

Percival takes a place on a beat-up leather chair and rubs his hands over his jean-clad thighs. 

“Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

“I’m late.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Listen, Graves. While Koch is giving us some free reign, I’m making you a detective again.”

He coughs. Shuffles in his seat and rubs a hand over his chin. “No.”

“No?” Picquery tilts her head away from the form she’s completing, never blind-sided, but surprised that he has not fulfilled her expectation. That he would nod and get out sharpish. 

“I can’t do that.” He feels panicked. His throat feels tight. He’s not a detective. He’s king of the rat-kiddies, put in his proper place by Abernathy. He’s perfect ex-detective material. 

Picquery puts her pen down. “I think you better go home, come in here tomorrow at eight and tell me the right answer.”

He swallows loudly. Wipes his brow with the back of his hand. She’s watching him curiously. He’d been on her radar since the demotion after the disturbances in the Barebone case, but she hadn’t considered that Graves might be a bit odd. Flighty is not a good characteristic in a police officer. Yet, he was an upstanding war veteran. A good man. Paid for his child, so she’d heard. 

He pats his knees with both hands, twice. Their eyes meet. His eyebrows angled open in nervous worry, hers close knit in concentration, trying to figure him out. “I have. I have headaches.”

She waits.

“Headaches. And my stomach-“ He pats his middle, twice. “-hurts. I’ve got a-“ He looks out the window. He was about to say, ‘wife’. Thinking of Credence at home, probably crocheting a blanket with Queenie as they speak. Credence is not his wife. He’s not sure where this argument is going. Even if Credence was his wife, technically being a detective is a job that is going to keep out of the line of fire more than a beat-cop. 

He clears his throat. “I’ll be here at eight, tomorrow morning.” He nods. 

Picquery nods back and flicks her wrist, directly him to leave without a further word. 

At home, Credence is sat on the floor, crochet project slung across the kitchen table. There’s a television wedged under the windowsill and the volume is far too loud. 

Credence spots him and grins. He crawls across the hardwood floor, alley cat until he can reach up and paw at Percival’s ribs. He takes Credence’s wrists in his hands and avoids trying to notice that they are a blushed red. He bends over and kisses Credence on the forehead, clumsily slumps until he is kneeling too. He reaches out and prods inelegantly at the chunky volume button to the left of the screen. 

“Where did this come from?”

“Mrs Hackett.”

“She just gave you a TV?”

Credence shakes his head and thinks about it. “She gave Newt a TV and he said the kids would fight over it, so he brought it up.”

Percival hums in the back of his throat and kisses Credence properly. Gently cups his jaw and sucks at his tongue. Credence tastes like lemonade. Sugary sweet, a cocoon of harmless, the picture of the daytime shows watery in the afternoon sun. 

They stay like that, on the floor. Credence watching the television, newly obsessed and Percival taking the opportunity to roam Credence. Kisses the skin at the back of his hip, scar tissue there delicate. Kisses the arch of his elbow. Kisses the fragile looking tendon on his ankle. 

They’re watching the credits of an episode of _Little House on the Prairie_ , Percival has his hand smoothing over Credence’s lower back. He’s licking behind Credence’s ear, not as invested in the new addition to their home as him. Credence says, “Modesty would have liked that.“ After a pause in which Percival doesn’t know if he’s meant to respond. “Chastity too, I think.” 

Credence has never spoken of his sisters. The esses in their names, over-sibilant against his teeth. He rubs his nose along the line of Percival’s. Pauses on the downward stroke, breathing in the scent of Percival’s skin. Drags his nose across the prominent freckle on his cheek and over his stubble. Itches his nose there. 

Silence is what they know best. They don’t talk. They’re not practiced at it. Credence didn’t say anything when Percival stepped through the door five hours early and maybe Percival shouldn’t say anything at the mention of Credence’s sisters. Percival grips the thick material of Credence roll over neck sweater, gets him to look at him.  
Credence shrugs. “I liked it.”

Percival takes Credence’s hands in his and they sit like that, facing one another legs crossed. A commercial for a grocery superstore spills chatter-jingle in the background. A police siren clammers by outside. Somebody is cooking with garlic.  


 

It’s nearing mid-morning and Percival is lurking in a bodega around the corner from the station, eyeing up the candy bars and avoiding Tina’s smiles and Abernathy’s glare. They all know he’s been properly reinstated. Not through any courtesy Picquery might have extended by making a formal announcement, but because they all saw him hand his cop uniform over to Louise.

Max, hanging off a stool at the cash register and flicking through a music magazine tuts at him. “Comprar algo.”

Percival puts his hands on his hips. “’Kay. ‘M thinking.’ 

A woman puts a quart of milk on the counter. “Percival.”

He looks up from the rows of _Snickers_ he is studiously considering. “Gena.”

Max takes her money and tuts again. 

“Are you at work?” She’s eyeing his badge pinned to a blazer that he didn’t think to get laundered before his first day back. 

He clears his throat and presses his middle finger gently on a chocolate bar, thinking about picking it up. ‘Yeah.” He nods. “Yeah, detective again.”

She clasps her hands in front of her, milk awkwardly gripped in one hand. About to fall. She sways forward and back again. “Good. That’s good.” She raises the milk and shakes it. “Buying milk.” She’s smiles, tight lipped. “I’m working in an office.” She looks over her shoulder, as though a visual of her new daily routine might appear as a presentation for her to neatly detail to him. 

“Oh.” He thinks about her overly dutiful parents whose house can only be reached by trekking over the step streets. How they carefully paid for her to go to college. How, one day, she had invited him to dinner in that house past _Naples Terrace_ and he’d brought cheap wine from someplace next to the subway, only to be politely informed by her mother that they don’t drink. “Is it good?”

“Yes.” She’s wearing a gold bangle. He’s seen the style before, maybe on a bus stop ad or on the wrist of a victim. There’s little circles indented into the metal, each one a line across their middle. The head of a screw. The cost of it could probably buy a thousand of the thin Stirling silver maiden’s bracelet he’d bought Credence. 

They both nod. Max watches them. Gena gathers the end of her long her into her hand and swings it over her shoulder. “I’ll bring Chad by next week.”

Percival steps his left toes onto his right, bobs at the waist. “Sure. Yes. That would be nice.”

She leaves, smartly stepping away swiftly in brown brogues.

Max has reached over the counter and snagged two _Snickers_. The flash of the wrapper, catching Percival’s attention from where he’s looking at the empty doorway and grey street outside. “One for Tina.”

Mouth parted, Percival smoothes his hair back, scratching his nails behind his ear and reaches into his blazer for his wallet. 

There’s a post-it stuck to the telephone in his office. Tina’s tight cursive announcing that Dalia called. Percival thinks there was time when he never spoke to anyone on the phone. When all these people in his life were much quieter. 

 

“Third Avenue? Oh, near The Hub?” Tina was sitting on Percival’s desk hunting for a pen and a case file when the phone rang. 

“Yeah, a guy from dance class got some NEA money and he set up an art collective. He likes my paintings.” It had been nice to hear Dalia’s voice and not the incompetent from the evidence room she had been expecting.

“Who wouldn’t.” She pauses. Dalia should have got that grant, not some guy. Some man who Tina imagines lures innocent girls to let him paint naked. “Do I know him?”

“No. Not in the way you mean anyway.”

Tina sighs. “You make me nervous.”

Dalia laughs. “If I didn’t, I don’t think I’d be a very good artist.”

Tina grabs a pad of post-its. Ignores the worry that swoops through her stomach when Dalia casually describes a murky bohemia that is far too close to the paperwork Tina swathes through every day. “Hey, I’m excited for you. A show, with an art collective. That’s the real stuff, right?”

Dalia rolls her eyes, but says, “You got it, Tee. And you have to come. Come Bronx fire or Bushwick murder.”

“I will. We all will. I’ll get Percival to pick you up this evening.”

 

He goes to pick Dalia up after work. She’s over at _Highlands Park_ smearing yellow acrylic onto a sheet of cardboard. He’s quite low down on the list of people Dalia would want to share a car journey with, so he can only assume that everyone is currently living a much more exciting life than he is. Well, apart from Tina. She’s interviewing a mugging suspect. And Queenie. She’s teaching. Newt and Jacob. They’re got children. Credence is-. So just Iris then. A date, maybe.

Dalia’s kneeling on the grass and as he approaches she holds a mug of dirty paint water out to him. “Take this.”

He stands awkwardly behind her. Holding the mug. She continues to paint for a moment. A spare paintbrush behind her ear, one between her teeth. She stands and puts her hands on her hips. She turns to him. “Okay, let’s go.” She gathers her bag and the drying art and gently nudges Percvial’s elbow so that the water drains onto the winter damp grass. 

In the car, he asks her about the show, but perhaps unhappy with the day’s work she’s gone brittle and doesn’t want to talk about it. So he changes lanes. “What’s Iris up to?”

Dalia looks at him out the corner of her eyes. “She, can you believe it, has been at Coney Island all day.”

Percival’s mouth twitches in bemusement. “Why?”

Dalia sits back in the passenger seat, unfolding her arms. Her smile moves from cynical to content. “A date.”

Percival considers the things Dalia may or may not tell him. They drive a block in silence. “Is he nice?”

After a beat Dalia pats her knees covered in black wool stockings “He is. He works in a grocery store out that way.”

Percival hums. He thinks that sounds good. He’s never sure with Dalia. Outside her and Iris’s apartment block he moves to help her with her equipment, but she tells him off. Says he shouldn’t touch what he doesn’t understand. “Come to the show though, won’t you?” She kisses him on the cheek and he promises that he will.

With the car door open, letting all the warm air out, she angles back inelegantly and looks at him with serious eyes. “Even if Credence won’t.”

 

Percival is just relieved that it’s Saturday and that he has the day off. “Come on. I want to-“

Credence puts a hand on the centre of his breast, keeping him an arm’s length away. He smiles, pretend-shy. He’s got two fingers inside himself and can feel his mind sifting out everything but this. This is good, so good and he’ll let Percival join in.

They’re on the couch, and Percival’s eyes track the pre-come slip from Credence onto the homemade blanket. Credence is knelt in front of him and has allowed him close enough to sneak his fingertips along the edge of his thighs. His own dick is hard eager against his stomach and Credence licks the corner of his mouth, sweat salt tentatively.

“Knock knock-“

“Jesus Chris-“ Percival hears Tina’s voice and rolls his eyes at the same time as jumping up and slamming the door on her as she’s just prying it open.

She laughs loudly, but indignant “It’s lunchtime! You knew I was coming!”

When Percival has pulled on a tank top and some jogging sorts he opens the door to her. His hair is a mess and she’s blushing. “I didn’t mean that as an innuendo.”

Percival tips his head back on his neck and groaning, gestures to the room, showing Credence sat on the couch, blanket gone, jeans and shirt on. He waves at her. He crosses his legs. She sighs and holds up a large pizza box. “Look. Lunch. Geez Louise.”

She strides into the apartment and heads for the kitchen table. She puts the pizza down and reaches for the window. “It’s thirty-three degrees out, why are your windows open?”

Percival sits down heavily at the table and flips the lid on the box. “It’s raining.”

Tina’s clattering around the cupboards for crockery, while Percival bites straight into a slice. Credence has fetched a pitcher of ice tea from the fridge. Tina hands Credence a plate and he pours her a glass. She raises it, “A toast. To Percival’s new-old job.”

Credence stiffens, his knuckles white on the handle of the pitcher. Percival neatly takes it away from him and sighs loudly through his nose. Tina’s beam crumples at the edges. Percival goes to reach for Credence, but he moves to quickly. He goes over to the television and sits down in front of it. Turns it on, turns the volume up loud. 

Tina pushes at Percival’s bicep. “What did I say?”

“I hadn’t told him yet.”

“So? It’s good news, why would he be upset about it?”

“I don’t know, do I? I didn’t get a chance to tell him.” He widens his eyes at her. Pushes her bicep.

They eat pizza and watch Credence watch an episode of _Guiding Light_. Credence likes to watch the credits, but as they fade he comes to sit at the table and eat the cold pizza they saved for him. 

Tina thinks this might be a couple’s quarrel. She can never tell around Percival and Credence. It’s not like Jacob and Newt who are devoted to one another. It’s not like Dalia and Iris who are a different kind of devoted to one another. She frowns. Credence’s bracelet glints in the whispery light of the kitchen. Percival has a bite mark at the back of his neck, high near his pierced earlobe. 

She puts her hands on the table. “I’m gonna go.”

They don’t say anything and she leaves, resisting the urge to tidy a pile of books near the bed on her way out.

Percival grabs a jar of peanut butter and a teaspoon. He takes a mouthful. He scoops another and offers it to Credence. He shakes his head. Tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth he asks, “Why are you upset?”

Credence pinches the skin under his wrist. When he didn’t talk, he didn’t have to answer these types of questions. He would just go lay down and see what would happen. Sometimes he got his way, sometimes he didn’t and he couldn’t be mad because he never took any steps to intervene. 

Percival is swirling the spoon around the jar and not looking at Credence. Giving him space to think before speaking. “When you were a detective, you were bad.” 

He looks up. Looks at Credence with hurt. He was a detective who made bad decisions. He drank too much. Spent too long with victims. Sometimes got rough with perpetrators. Thought about the war too much. Saw his wife in the eyes of street girls taken into custody. Saw his baby dying in weird dreams about Vietnam. King of the rat-kids. He wasn’t bad. Not noble or discrete or even lucid sometimes. But not bad. 

He pulls Credence’s wrist away from his own torment. Dragging him on his chair closer towards himself.

Credence ducks his head. Not used to his voice still. Not saying the thing that he really means. “People think you did a bad thing.” His voice jolts down an octave. “He surely must die that salvation may come.”

By the scruff of his neck he hauls Credence into his lap. Holds him tight. Feels his ribs expanded and contracting as he hiccoughs a quiet sob into Percival’s neck. Runs his fingers sharply through Credence’s hair, keeping him tucked in. He smells like oranges and patchouli. Moves his arms to bring Credence’s knees up, his fingers digging into Credence’s thigh. His jeans old and thin. Wrapping Credence’s arms around his shoulders, reducing the space between their bodies. Cocooning them together. Just the skin of Credence’s damp cheeks against his, their breath warm in their new nest.

**June 1978**

“What are you doing?”

Credence tilts his head towards Percival stood by the door. He removes the cigarette from his mouth and taps the ash on the windowsill. He shrugs a bare shoulder coolly.

Percival turns the television off. Clicks his teeth at the thought of how much the electric bill for that thing will be. Takes the cigarette from Credence’s fingers and flicks it outside. He kisses Credence. “Don’t smoke. It tastes bad.”

It’s an overcast day, the pale grey cloud toying with the idea of raining later in the afternoon. A brooding warmth has settled over the city. Credence is sat next the television, elbow leaning on it, back up against the wall. Percival sits next to him and links their fingers. 

From Mrs Hackett’s they hear one of Newt and Jacob’s girls shout, “Ice cream soda, Delaware Punch” before a loud floorboard bang suggests she’s been taken down by a younger sibling. Percival brings their joined hands up, hiding his giggle. 

Newt and Jacob are at the march. Queenie and Dalia had made placards. Iris had made sure everyone had a sunhat. Tina is cross with Percival because he refused to go. He’s not sure if the _Pride Parade_ is the place for him in any case. He doesn’t know what Credence thinks. 

He leans his shoulder against Credence’s until Credence has to twist to avoid careening into the television. He lays him down so that he can settle over him. Put his head on the floor next to Credence’s face and rub his fingers along Credence’s nose. Credence smiles sleepily.

“You think we’re queer?” He whispers into Credence’s ear. 

Hi hand travels lower, pauses at Credence’s clavicle and taps the delicate skin there before smoothing over Credence’s nipple. Credence’s skin goose-pimples. 

Credence considers everything he was taught growing up. Remembers how it felt the first time Percival kissed him. Thinks about the last time Percival touched him somewhere he was told no man should ever touch him. Reruns the shy conversation he had with Jacob’s priest. “Yes.”

Percival sighs and pushes his hand just inside the waistband of Credence’s shorts. “You think we have to tell anyone?”

\--

They’d locked Credence up once he was released from the hospital, which Percival still says was a terrible idea. A neighbour was insistent that Mary Lou had never wanted anything but the best for Credence and the two younger girls. That Credence was in a pact with the devil and had set the house on fire to destroy the Lord’s work gifted by his adoptive mother. 

The police department had scoffed at the fallacy of the neighbour’s statement. It wasn’t so easy to ignore that the abuse evident on Credence’s body was enough of a motive for him to have potentially attempted murder. 

Credence said nothing and waited it out in city jail for eight days while the fire department conducted their investigation. A cigarette left to smoulder on the pillow beside Mary Lou’s head. The neighbour claiming that he’d never seen Mary Lou smoke. Never. Credence not saying anything at all. Credence with nobody to pay bail, languishing in a cell while his sisters’ joint funeral went ahead without him. 

\--

Credence curved his leg over Percival’s hip urging him to move between them. Locking his ankles around him, he gently nudged his hardening cock against Percvial’s, encouraging him to move with him. Credence’s thighs are too tight around his waist so he can’t move much, but it’s enough. 

Percival kisses him wetly, a sloppy nudging of tongues and teeth. They rut together, ratchet friction until Credence bites at Percival’s top lip. Tugs Percival closer by the back of his neck, mouths at the stubble over he freckle on his cheek. Overheated and sated they lay still on the floor, a sluggish breeze ghosting in from the window. 

“Come on. Bath time.” Percival pats at the bare skin, pink skin of Credence’s leg just beneath his shorts. 

The hot water is still unreliable, so Percival runs a shallow tub of luke-warm water. Credence sits with his back against his chest, fingers running along the course hair of Percival’s thighs, leaning forward to trickle them over his own smooth shins. Percival pointlessly, but soothingly rubs a bar of un-lathered soap over Credence’s spine. It smells like aloe vera. Iris must have bought it. His attention drifts as he looks at a small garish painting hung over the cistern. 

He bought it from Dalia’s show. At the time, it was the cheapest thing in the room and he had wanted to support her. In between the kaleidoscope of yellow, there’s something like déjà vu prickling at him. The colour of scar tissue and the shape of eyes at hast-mast. Credence passes him a washcloth. 

 

When they arrive at Newt and Jacob’s for dinner, Jacob is sat on the couch with a small child leaning heavily into him. He has a handful of ice wrapped in a dishcloth held up to his temple.

“What happened?”

“What do you think happened?” Tina growls at him.

She has a whisky tumbler filled with ginger ale and hands it to Jacob, who makes the child sit up straight so he can take it. Newt is stood in the doorway of the kitchen, one leg crossed behind the other, his arms folded. His face is flushed like he might have been crying. Or shouting. 

“The radio said the parade was peaceful.”

Newt seems to give up his pretence of being okay, at Percival’s comment. He throws his arms up and sits down heavily next to Jacob, hiding his face in his shoulder, clutching his waist. Jacob passes his glass to the child and pats Newt’s forearm. The child takes a sip of the soda. 

“It was peaceful,” says Queenie. “The parade didn’t stop people from hating us.”

Iris and Dalia are in the kitchen, chopping eggplant and onion and bribing the kids with chunks of tomato to sit quietly at the table. Cooking _Khoresh Bademjan_ to cheer everyone up. 

Queenie had spent all night sewing a rainbow flag after the news had shown the images of yesterday’s San Francisco _Pride_. It has been abandoned under a spindly wooden chair. Credence crouches down and wraps it around his shoulders. 

Jacob laughs at him and Newt looks up. He begins to laugh too. Jacob kisses Newt on the mouth and the child next to them squeals in squirmish glee. Tina lets her hands fall from where they are staunchly placed on her hips, her head tossed in the direction of Percival still trying to glare at him. She huffs a laugh and walks over to hug Percival to her. Iris and Dalia peek in from the kitchen, the kids following laughing loudly for the joy of laughing. Credence smiles at the floor and looks to Queenie. She makes a space under the flag for herself and wraps her arms around Credence, leaning her head on his and softly tittering. 

**November 1978**

Percival hates Thanksgiving. “The damn Yankees!” Newt shouts as Iris and Dalia arrive. Newt adjusts the baseball cap he’s wearing over his henna-red hair, grinning at them.

Jacob is playing _More Songs About Buildings and Food_ at Queenie’s request. The kids are dancing erratically to it, split up by asking Credence to spin them. They’re excited about the sweet potatoes and the _Hershey’s kisses_ Tina keeps slipping them. 

\--

Eventually, the whole thing was declared a tragic accident. Tina had been desperate to take it to trial, the make an example of Mary Lou, to reform the adoption process in New York. Tina forever in Picquery’s office, pick picking at her. Dragging up circumstantial evidence about the relationship between Mary Lou and the neighbour. About how the girls had been sent to school as an elaborate ruse and Credence kept at home. 

Credence wouldn’t say and Tina didn’t have to imagine what being kept at home meant, too many horrific cases. America’s favourite son letting down its youngest, its most vulnerable inhabitants one too many time. A city Tina was close to saying she could no longer be proud to call home. 

Percival is smoking on the steps of the station, his arms folding the denim of his jacket tight at his elbows. Credence treads slowly past him, wearing a thin grey jumper and too short pants. He watches him shuffle past the building, pause at the corner, put his hands in his pockets and turn to walk past in the other direction. Percival puts his cigarette out on the wall he’s leaning against. “Hey kid.”

Credence looks up.

“You got somewhere to go?”

\--

Percival takes a breather from the festivities by going outside to a payphone to call Gena and Chad. It’s cold, but in that mild way when the earth’s heat begins to rise to meet the ice of the sky just to touch, just clutch hands enough to start snowing. 

“Will- erm. Will you let me speak to him?”

“Of course, Percival.” He can hear Gena quietly coaxing Chad over to the receiver. Her parents are playing Christmas music already. “It’s Thanksgiving. I wouldn’t not let you talk to him.”

He coughs. “I know.” He presses his palm to the metal of the telephone box to feel the chill seeping in. 

“Happy Thanksgiving.”

He can’t say it. Thanksgiving is too awful. “You too,” he mumbles.

“’lo?” Chad has got something in his mouth, one too many gummy bears Percival reckons. 

“Hi buddy.” He’s trying. He knows calling his son on Thanksgiving is the right thing to do. He enjoys talking to Chad. Likes hearing his funny little stories with made-up words, but it’s hard. It’s hard knowing what to say. 

“I want you to just be yourself and have a good time.” Caroline Ingalls’s dulcet voice crosses the back of his mind. He wonders if Chad likes _Little House on the Prairie_. He doesn’t let Credence turn the television on much when Chad is around. 

“Daddy, mommy says I should tell you Happy Thanksgiving.”

Percival puffs air through his teeth and scuffs the toe of his boot on the ground. “You too, sweetheart. Have you had a nice day?”

“Uh-huh. Grandpa let Bobo play fetch.”

“That’s good. That sounds” Percival pauses at the word ‘fun’. Bobo is Gena’s parent’s aging Labrador. He doesn’t move much because he has a heart condition. A dog with a heart condition. The cost alone gives Percival heart palpitations. “good,” he finishes meekly.

“I’m gonna go now.” Chad sounds like he puts a lollipop into his mouth before shouting, “’Appy Tha’sgiving, Cred’ce!” as though Credence might be able to hear him.

“I’ll tell him, Chad. I’ll tell him.” He goes to summon the courage to tell Chad he loves him, but Chad hangs the phone up. 

As he approaches Jacob and Newt’s apartment, it begins to snow. He opens the front door. He brushes his hair back with the flat of his palm. Everybody is still crowded in their small front room. They’re drinking non-alcoholic eggnog. Credence meets him in the hall with a glass and kisses his cheek. 

Credence looks over his shoulder, in their careful embrace. Percival takes a sip and watches as Credence holds a hand out, catching snowflakes in his palm. He turns his hand over and steps outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive me this indulgence: It did not snow on Thanksgiving 1978 in New York.


End file.
